


Deconstruction

by joseyposey



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, College Student Eren Yeager, Deconstruction, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Existentialism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Kinda, Literary Theory, Literature, M/M, POV Third Person, Physical Abuse, Present Tense, Rated Explicit for later chapters, Smut, Writer Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), goddang it, i swear it's not that depressing, omg this sounds so depressing, probably a little bit depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joseyposey/pseuds/joseyposey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something tempting about chaos. Perhaps it is the falling apart, the loss of control, the disorder, the lack of form - is that it? The desire to fall apart? Why does one want to fall apart?<br/>____</p><p>The cultural and political hegemony of Jaeger Press House faces an unexpected challenger when a new author appears in town. Levi Ackerman's 'Metaphysics' rouses interest in many of Shiganshina's citizens, but the reaction it sparks within the young student Eren Jaeger may turn out to have greater consequences than anyone could have foreseen. Levi Ackerman is the master of taking things apart, of dismantling, of deconstruction; and he might just tear everything asunder - for better or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A declaration of war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go again :) I have been planning this fic for ages, and I thought it was time that I posted the first chapter and started working more seriously with it.
> 
> I would like to dedicate this first chapter to my dear friend [mhysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mhysa/profile) who's been very supportive, helpful and encouraging, listening to me ramble on about this story. You are an incredible human being - bless you so much <3
> 
> It feels really nice to finally post this and I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed - and struggled, lol - writing it. Hopefully you won't find the themes in it boring - I'm sorry, it seems I always end up writing about literature and writing, but I can't really help it.
> 
> Thank you :)

  All that can be heard in the sparsely lit room is the insistent scratching of a pen upon paper. The sound is irksome, unceasing, like an annoying little insect right by your ear. In the pressing, complete silence the sound feels like a violation.

  The shelves lining the walls, with their faded, fragile spines, are watching. The offender can feel their looming presence around him; the pen he holds is clawing at the paper.

  He is hunched over a desk. A soft light cast by a banker lamp is reflected in the surface of the mahogany wood where it is not covered by heaps upon heaps of paper.

  He is scribbling furiously on a respective document, his hand moving quickly from one margin to the other, each time coming dangerously close to knocking over a pile of papers that has been precariously stacked on the edge of the desk.

  A heavy sigh escapes him, and he straightens up in his chair, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck. For a while he sits, staring at the papers before him with a hopeless expression. Slumping back in his seat, he releases a pitiful groan, and his body goes limp… He stares up into the ceiling, which he cannot see very well for the dark, and thick brown locks part to reveal a pair of startlingly green eyes.

  Slowly, and like it is the single most demanding task he has ever had to perform, he lifts his arm to look at his wristwatch. It has him jerking back into life immediately, and once again he hunches over the cluttered desk to resume his work, albeit more frantically now, a string of expletives trickling from his lips.

  “Fuckfuckfuck…”

  The mantra continues as he flicks through a document, putting down numbers in the margins next to a long list of titles. On the top of each sheet there is a printed logo that reads, _Jaeger Antique Bookstore._

  “I’m not gonna fucking make it,” he mutters through clenched teeth as he glances at his watch once more. It is a quarter to seven.

  He swears he is going to kill Auruo.

  Why on earth did they have to do inventory today of all days? And to make it worse, Auruo just bails halfway through it because of some “important appointment”, leaving Eren behind to finish everything by himself, and the reading would be starting in – 11 minutes.

  If he left now he might just make it…

  “Fuck this shit!” he declares in a high-pitched tone, and he throws the pen he has been clutching for the past three hours dramatically across the desk; it skids across the papers and dives off of the edge, coming to a disdainful and clattering stop in a dusty, darkened corner. Eren nearly knocks over the pile of papers when he jumps from his seat, but they only sway threateningly as he hurries to put on his coat.

  He should not be leaving, but he cannot bring himself to care. He would come back early in the morning, before opening hours, and finish the work then. If his father figured out he could put some of the blame on Auruo – and, honestly, he would not feel even slightly guilty in doing that.

  He turns off the lamp and the light is swallowed so quickly that it startles him – a feeling of dislocation, as if, perhaps, he has been swallowed along with it; now trapped behind a row of sharp, gleaming teeth that he cannot see within the darkness of an imagined maw.

  Eren’s heartbeat quickens.

  He stumbles through the bookstore, now draped in a cloak of night. He is halfway through the room when he realises that he has forgotten something. Shocked at his own carelessness he turns around so quickly he loses his balance and ends up tearing down a pile of books; they sound like thunder in the dark silence. He curses himself for the habit of using the banker lamp only, when he has to feel his way back to the desk where it sits.

  When his fingers touch the cold metal that is the lamp, and the light washes over the mess on the table, he is somewhat relieved. His eyes are scanning as his hands frantically shuffle the books and the papers away in his desperate search.

  “Where’d it go?” he whispers, as if atoning for all the noise before, trying to control his breathing because it is too loud in the oppressing hush of the place.

  He knows he is running late, but he does not want to leave without it.

  A stack of papers is pushed off the desktop so that they flutter away in the dark to slide underneath shelves that stretch ominously to the ceiling; their flight reveals what Eren is looking for and he sighs when it appears before him.

  It is a tattered, well-used book, its cover a faded blue; a paperback copy whose title reads _Metaphysics_.

  When he has it secured, he lets the room swallow itself up once more, and he escapes outside, cracking the spine of a book that lies on the cold, unforgiving floor as he flees.

  He can breathe again when he stands outside on the pavement in front of the shop.

  It takes some rummaging through pockets and a few solemn profanities before he finally happens upon his keys and can lock the door.

  Eren runs across the street, setting a brisk pace as he walks down the pavement, casting a disgruntled look at the lamps lining the street, which remain stubbornly unlighted. 

  It is cold. The wind is pulling at his coat, ruffling his hair and chilling the skin of his face; it feels like a taut mask has been pulled onto his skull.

  The sky is dark so Eren cannot see the clouds that lurk in the abyss above. Still he can feel them hovering; his shoulders tense up and the muscles of his face contract as a headache starts to pound in the back of his head. It is the cold, he concludes. His hands feel numb so he digs them into his coat pockets. The thought of winter crosses his mind and he shudders.

  He quickens his pace; he has to get to that reading on time.

  It is risky, of course. He would have to be discreet. If his father were to find out that he has attended…

  Eren grits his teeth and bows his head to the merciless wind. At least it is not raining, he thinks. But the air is shivering; he senses there will be a violent downpour before the evening is over.

  He is clutching the blue book; his fingertips are cold and itchy.

  Walking like this, neck bent against the wind, eyes squinting at dark asphalt, he can’t see much, but he knows these streets well – he has walked them a thousand times.

  A look at his watch tells him he has less than five minutes, and he speeds up to a half jog.

  He turns a corner and slips on the wet leaves covering the asphalt, only just managing to regain his balance. Relief washes over him when he looks up to see his destination ahead – a white stone building that is modestly ornamented; the sign on the front reads, ‘The House of Literature’. The place shines like a beacon, calling Eren to it with its promise of warmth and light.

  When he finally reaches it he does not climb the stairs for the main entrance. Throwing a look around him to make sure no one is nearby, he slips down a cobbled path that leads to a back door.

  The minute he enters through it he can hear the noise from the kitchen at one end of the corridor; he hurries in the opposite direction. There is a small flight of stairs up ahead and he climbs them two at a time as he keeps ignoring the hitch that has appeared in his side. His heart is hammering in his chest.

  It is seven p.m., he is almost there, and he is going to make it.

  All right, all he has to do now is try to press his way into the auditorium and somehow spot Armin in the crowd. He should be somewhere in the back, as is their usual –

  A hard impact sends Eren reeling backwards. His balance fails him, and he falls to the floor rather ungracefully.

  “Jesus, fuck –!”

  Sitting on the floor, groaning in pain, Eren attempts to gather his wits. Looking up, he catches sight of his assailant – who looks very, very angry. _Extremely_ very angry, Eren decides.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you!” the man snarls.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Eren gasps, out of breath, and still a little disoriented.

  The man is glaring at him; the frown he is wearing is as severe as one carved into marble. He is holding a glass with a brown liquid in it; most of it has spilled onto the floor and it looks like some got on his suit as well. The intensity of his gaze strikes something of a chill into Eren, and he scrambles to his feet, because it looks like the man might be seconds from kicking his head in.

  “Who are you?” he barks, looking Eren over critically. “You’re not staff.”

  Eren opens his mouth to give an explanation, but he is having a hard time. The man’s vehement hostility is making him nervous and he knows he is running out of time; he can hear the sound of a buzzing crowd up ahead – people are most likely making their way into the auditorium right this moment...

  “Oi, I’m talking to you.”

  “Oh!”

  Presently, Eren realises that the book he’s been carrying is no longer in his hand, and his heart skips a beat. However, he spots it immediately after, lying on the floor at the feet of the angry man. Eren bends down and snatches it up quickly.

  The book now in his hands has drawn the man’s attention; cold, grey eyes behold the badly treated copy, before they return to the one who is holding it, perhaps too tightly; and they are narrowing.

  The man gives an annoyed huff.

  “You know what, I don’t care,” he steps forward, “nor do I have time for this.”

  With a last look at Eren, eyes slipping down his form to settle briefly on the book in his hands, he brushes past him and continues down the corridor.

  Eren stands immobile for a second, a little out of it. Yet he sets off again, out of time, heart hammering, thoughts chasing him down the corridor.

  He gets there just in time to join the throng of people filing in through the double doors leading into the auditorium. He can feel the excitement building in him, it causes him to shiver minutely, and the disquieting encounter he has just had is pushed out of his mind.

  He tries to locate a particular blond head among the people in the crowd, but it is not an easy task. When he finally enters through the doors his eyes scan the seats in the back, still looking for his best friend. He should be there somewhere…

  Finally his eyes catch sight of a hand waving at him from the second row in the back and Eren spots Armin’s blond mop of hair. He manoeuvres through the crowd, climbing the stairs to where Armin is seated.

  As he makes his way through the crowd, he feels like a hundred eyes are watching him. It is tempting to pull his hood up, but the thought is a little ridiculous, and it would undoubtedly only draw more attention to him. Instead he does his best to keep his head down as he makes his way, cursing under his breath when he sees familiar faces; it would not do him any favours if he were recognised here tonight.

  “Eren!” Armin beams when he reaches him. He looks relieved. “I didn’t think you would make it.”

  “Me neither,” Eren pants; slumping back into the seat Armin has saved for him. It feels like he has just finished running the marathon. As he relaxes in the comfy seat, finally getting the opportunity to catch his breath, a surge of irritation hits him.

  “It was that bloody Auruo’s fault,” he explains. “He bailed on me.”

  Armin sighs. “You should tell your father, you know.”

  Eren lets out a spiteful laugh. “Yeah, that way he’ll be fired and then I’ll have to do double the work. I don’t think so, Armin.”

  Armin shrugs. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  When he is calm enough, he has the sense to throw a discreet look around before slumping further down into his seat. It earns him a sympathetic glance from Armin.

  “I hate this so much,” Eren mutters.

  “I know. I’m sorry, Eren.”

  The silence is tense for a few seconds before Eren says, “There’s a lot of people here.”

  And it is true, he can’t remember the last time it was this packed.

  “I’m not surprised,” Armin says. “Everybody’s talking about him.” He throws a meaningful look at Eren. “ _Some_ people are physically incapable of shutting up about him.”

  “Fuck you,” Eren laughs, but he does not deny it.

  His glumness is expelled as they watch and wait, his irritation wanes when he becomes absorbed in the present and in the prevalent atmosphere of expectation that permeates the air in the room. Eren’s eyes are glued to the stage.

  Any minute now – any minute he would appear before them. Eren’s fingers are splayed on the book in his lap. He wonders what he will be like.

  When the lights are dimmed Eren’s heartbeat picks up. He gives Armin an excited look before he attaches his eyes to the stage again.

  A woman appears. She walks over to the podium and welcomes them.

  “We are so glad to have such an amazing turn-up for this event. As you all know, our guest tonight will be talking about his debut novel, _Metaphysics_. He has attracted a lot of attention from the literary community recently, and has caused some substantial controversy. We are very lucky to have him here with us tonight. Please welcome – Levi Ackerman!”

  A round of applause breaks out and the woman retreats. A minute or so passes before another figure appears onstage. The atmosphere of tense expectation eases up when the audience can finally look upon the writer, as if they were half expecting him not to show, or were perhaps entertaining the idea that the fabled author did not exist at all.

  But there he is and he looks very real.

  And very, very hostile.

  Wait – what?

  Eren nearly falls off his chair when he recognises the man.

  There can be no doubt about it – it’s that short angry guy from before.

  He is walking up to the podium.

   _Levi Ackerman._

That is Levi Ackerman.

  When the author finally takes his place by the podium and the stage lights can illuminate him properly, Eren decides that he looks even more unpleasant than before. Eren can’t help it; he sinks lower in his seat like he is afraid the man will notice him in the crowd. Maybe it is just Eren’s imagination, but the author’s grim demeanour seems to have increased a tenfold.

  The audience is applauding him, evidently unfazed by his dark appearance, or maybe they have not yet noticed. After the applause dies out, the auditorium falls into an expectant silence as they willingly submit to the great presence on stage. Everyone is watching him, waiting for the author to speak.

  But for a moment, the man seems petrified. Underneath the stage lights he looks exceptionally pale, unhealthily so. The gaze that he turns upon them is antagonistic yet defensive; involuntarily the image of a hedgehog appears in Eren’s mind; curled into itself, its spikes sticking out in a threatening manner.

  Eren can see him clutching a glass filled with a clear liquid. He is not so sure that it is water.

  The man flicks the mouth of the microphone and people jump in their seats when the speakers emit an obnoxious crack.

  ”I am not here today to talk about my book.”

  Eren’s stomach drops.

  The author's voice is a cool, bored drawl that travels across the auditorium like an icy wind, and the sheer enmity of it cannot be mistaken. Abruptly the atmosphere shifts; people are noticing the unfriendly appearance of the writer; uncertain and confused looks are exchanged.

  “Although, I must say, I am a little humbled to see so many of you here tonight. You must be very interested in my novel.”

  The scorn in his voice is not lost on Eren.

  The author removes his glare from the audience, and his fingers release the glass he has been holding to bring out a folded sheet of paper, along with a pair of glasses from an inner pocket. The glasses are placed on the thin bridge of his nose. Slowly he starts unfolding the paper. When it is done he places it atop the podium and takes a sip of his drink.

  He looks perfectly unconcerned by the fact that he has an audience, even seems like he has forgotten all about them as he lets the tension in the room build to the point where it becomes nearly unbearable.

  A terrible feeling is forming in the pit of Eren’s stomach and, he is not aware of it, but his fingers have started to abuse the cover of the book placed snugly in his lap.  

  When the author speaks once more it feels like the drawing of breath after having been submerged under water.

  “My novel has become exceptionally fashionable, which would explain your immense interest in it, of course,” he says, and Eren thinks he can detect a slight slur in the man’s speech, but it is barely there. “Because you’re all so very _interested_ in things, aren’t you,” he holds up a finger for emphasis, “- in the _right_ things, naturally. And at this moment, my novel is the right thing to be interested in, isn’t it? It’s _fashionable._ ”

  The author pauses and directs his gaze out onto the audience. It is punishing; Eren can feel it weighing him down; it is crushing him further down into his seat. The bad feeling that has been growing within him is now bordering on nausea. Eren looks to Armin and he can tell that his friend is feeling uncomfortable, too. His eyes travel back to the creature on stage.

  What is this? Why is he being like this?

  “Getting to it, I am here to make an official statement.”

  A murmur runs through the auditorium. A statement?

  “I will make this brief and to the point. I don’t wish to stay here any longer than I have to… I have been invited to join this little club and I am here to officially decline that invitation.”

  His voice is becoming more forceful as he speaks, more purposeful, fuelled by some kind of conviction that has yet to be disclosed.

  “They want to affiliate me – this literary institution wants me to join them. But I do not believe in institutions such as these, and I will not be affiliated. I want no part in it, this closed minded, elitist, stagnant, traditionalist, club. And they must be deluded, thinking that I would even consider joining them.”  
              
  As the author speaks, his movements are a little unsteady, uncoordinated, but his voice is firm, powerful, compelling; Eren recognises the voice – it is the voice of the book he is currently clinging to.

  This is the man it originates from, he realises. This man is its source, and it makes sense – it makes perfect sense. It is that dichotomy of control in the midst of chaos, of a fragile harmony made out of contradiction – something that can easily be taken apart.

  “I am on my own,” he declares. “I will not let you disarm me.”

  Inexplicably, that particular statement has Eren’s spine tingling; a shiver runs through him, and he finds himself having a hard time taking his eyes off of the author, the being, the presence on stage.

  Before Eren is able to gather himself, the man’s voice is ringing out across the auditorium again.

  “And before I wrap this up I would like to share with you a few lines from a sensational review of my novel, perhaps my favourite one so far.”

  A pale hand slips inside his jacket to retrieve another piece of paper, this one crumpled and bearing clear signs of having been torn out of a newspaper. He attempts to smooth it out as best as he can, before downing the remainder of his drink in one go.

  “This particular review was printed in the evening paper, and I’m sure many of you have already read it, as it is by the one and only Grisha Jaeger.”

  Eren, against his every instinct, jerks up in his chair, and it does not go unnoticed by the people sitting around them, but Eren is oblivious.

_What?_

  Armin is pushing him back, and Eren tears his eyes from the stage to look at his friend, eyes wide with shock and hissing, _what did he just say??,_  but Armin is only shaking his head.

  Ackerman clears his throat and starts reading.

   “‘ _Ackerman’s_ Metaphysics _is a rare example of exceptionally coarse literature. It is lacking in style and finesse, the prose is unprocessed and chaotic, vulgar and cringe worthy, and, regularly, completely incomprehensible - although, however, some fault must be attributed to Ackerman’s editor, Erwin Smith, here. It is a mystery how such an unrefined script would be accepted for publication at all. Overall, the novel is lacking in seriousness. It has absolutely no respect for the genre it operates within, or more accurately, the genre it_ claims _to be operating within._ Metaphysics  _cannot be called a novel._ _Frequently it resembles nothing more than the rant of a neurotic, a cry for attention – and yet, it does not say much at all._ _I cannot comprehend the reason behind its receiving this extreme amount of attention. Personally, I see no merit in it, this ugly patchwork, this mockery of language, style and tradition.’_ ” _  
_

  Every word that is being read is like a blow, yet Eren listens intently, nails digging into the flesh of his palms; and he hates those words – _god,_ he hates them.

  The author ceases his recitation and he looks out on the audience once more – it is utterly silent.

  He removes his glasses, folds them. The slip of paper is folded, too, neatly, before being deposited in his jacket pocket along with his glasses.

  Relentlessly the author lets the moment drag on; it squirms before him, but he does not step on it immediately, relishing every second that sees it dragged along, suffering.

  In the taut quiet he has constructed, his voice sounds particularly impressive when he finally shatters it; it echoes in the great room, but he sounds calmer than before; more in control.

  “As you may have gathered, Jaeger and I have very different views when it comes to language, style, and literature.”

  “I’ve been waiting to hear what the Great Jaeger would have to say to my work, and to think that I’ve received a response like this is honestly more than I had ever dared hope for. It makes me feel extremely accomplished, and,” a smile is slowly stretching on his lips, “extremely _motivated…_ ”

  He inclines his head in the direction of the audience.

  “Thank you for having me. It has been a pleasure.”

  And before anyone can fully grasp what is transpiring, Ackerman is marching off stage.

  There is only a brief moment of prolonged silence, and then the audience is erupting in a cacophony of excited murmurs, and the lady-host soon comes running to the podium, stammering into the microphone, but few are actually listening, and Eren has had enough.

  He gets out of his chair. "I really want to leave."

  Armin nods, and joins Eren as he makes his way down the row of seats, muttering apologies as they try not to step on the feet of those still seated. 

  "Shit.”

  They are standing outside the auditorium. Armin is surveying his best friend, whose hand is trekking through his brown locks for the third time already.

  “I had no idea my father was going to review his book," Eren says in near disbelief.

  People have started filing out of the double doors now, and Armin guides the disturbed Eren towards the “alternative” exit before too many people can appear. They turn a corner and a deserted hallway is exceptionally welcome. 

  "I don't think anyone recognised me," Eren says, sensing Armin's apprehension.

  Armin nods, but he doesn’t look reassured.

  “That’s good, but are you okay? You look upset.”

  They are walking down the hall, leaving behind the noise emanating from the crowd currently pouring out of the auditorium.

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  The image of the ranting writer won't leave Eren’s mind, and the words he spoke echo inside his head. The terrible feeling from before sits in the bottom of his stomach, but it has evolved into something else, something indefinable. It is an intimidating conglomerate of feelings, spreading through him, quickly, like a gas desperate to fill its container.

  He is so acutely aware of the book he has lodged in between his arm and his side, like it's being welded into his flesh, like it's merging with his body, too, just like it has merged with his mind.

  Looking over at Armin, Eren can tell that his friend is in deep thought. He sighs, but he does not say anything.

  They walk down a flight of stairs and shortly they spot the exit ahead of them. Armin is the one to push the door open, delivering them out into cold darkness. The light of a nearby streetlamp serves as a substitute, illuminating the paved path that leads to the front of the building; it also reveals the figures of two men, presumably in the middle of a discussion.

  “ – completely unnecessary, Levi! This is not going to be good for your publicity.”

  “Does it look like I care, Erwin? ‘Cause I’m telling you, I don’t give a single fuck.”

  Eren and Armin halt, both flinching when the door slams shut behind them. The sound startles the men, too, and they both turn to locate the source of interruption.

  The shortest of the pair Eren recognizes immediately; it is none other than the writer, Levi Ackerman himself. The taller one, with his broad shoulders and blonde hair, he does not recognise. He looks weary and annoyed and Eren kind of feels sympathy for him, whoever he is.

  The writer, on the other hand, inspires no such sympathy.

  His eyes are narrowing as he turns to look at them – gaze honed; Eren can feel it cutting into him. A second or two passes, and there is a look of recognition in Ackerman’s features, and Eren recalls their unpleasant encounter in the hallway earlier.

  The taller man next to him is giving the author a serious look, which the latter promptly ignores. The jaw that he has stubbornly set, relaxes as something moves in his eyes and makes him look possibly meaner than before, like an animal sensing the smell of fresh blood.  

  “Look who it is,” he says, a sneer pulling at his lips. “Did you enjoy the show?”

  Eren’s voice is stuck in his throat. Again he is taken aback by the sheer hostility that is emanating from the man. It is stronger and more acute than before, and it robs him of the immediate ability to speak. Never in his life has he encountered such a spiteful person and he does not know how to deal with it.

  One look at the man and Eren can tell that he is starving.

  To speak is to bare one’s throat, and Eren has a feeling that the creature before him will lunge the minute he opens his mouth.

  Armin is tugging at his sleeve, motioning for them to leave and Eren wants to, desperately, yet… there’s that _feeling._

He can’t shake it. He _has_ to know.

  “What was that – at the end?” he hears himself say. The words tumble out of his mouth, desperate to escape, as if they know they will be withheld if they are any slower. “What did you mean?”

  In the silence left by his words, Eren’s heartbeat speeds up and he thinks he might be shaking. He can tell that he has surprised the author; the sneer on his lips is waning, his eyes adopt something akin to curiosity.

  Within him there is a tiny, trembling flame of hope, and it feels good, its light brushing against an intimidating darkness, its warmth comforting; he does not want it to be extinguished.

   “A sharp one,” is what the author says and he looks amused. Eren cannot tell if he is being sarcastic or not. His arms are folded across his chest as he turns to the younger man, giving him his full attention. “What’s your name?”

  It is rather blunt, but Eren is beginning to see that bluntness is one of the writer’s most representative characteristics.

  “Eren.”

  He hates the way he yields his name so quickly.

  “You were rushing weren’t you, Eren? To catch the reading?” There is a hint of triumph in the man’s voice.

  Eren can feel himself becoming increasingly nettled by the way the author is behaving. Suddenly he finds himself wishing that he were not carrying the man’s book under his arm.

  “Well, I hope you found it entertaining,” the author says.

  The man is mocking him. Not only him specifically, but all the people who came to hear him speak, too.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Eren cries, clearly startling the men in front of him, and honestly, he’s a little alarmed by the outburst himself. Next to him, he can hear Armin doing a sharp intake of breath. He does not look at his friend, fearing the rationality he knows he will find in those sharp, blue eyes, and when his lips part it is like an act of defiance.

  “Many of those people admire you. They came because they are interested in your work, because it is different, because they’ve never read anything like it before, because they are – ”

 _\- because they are starving_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say; he knows he is shaking now.

“They wanted to hear you speak,” he continues. “They wanted to hear your thoughts, and instead you insult and disappoint them. I don’t see why you even bothered coming here if that was all you wanted to do. No matter what you say, this place is a good place, and I don’t know what those people have done to deserve the treatment you just gave them. That was so mean spirited. You belittled and disrespected them. That is not how you should treat your readers. For all you know they are very committed to your work. Don’t let them pay for your cynicism and spite.”

  As he goes on, the surprised look on the author’s face soon vanishes. Instead a grim, foreboding air descends on him as he lets his gaze bear down upon Eren, as if it alone has the power to shut him up, but Eren does not budge, he has never been one to back down, and although it is extremely unnerving, he meets that deadly glare square on.

  When he finishes it is silent for a long moment; Ackerman’s face is stony, his lips sealed tightly, as if demonstrating his unwillingness to break it – silences are his speciality after all.

  It is cruel. Eren can feel tears stinging in his eyes.

  “Are you done?”

  The author’s voice is freezing cold; dead, and so is his stare.

  Eren can feel his throat constrict and he is so grateful for the greedy night; otherwise the tears he is forcing back would only be too apparent.

  “Come on, Eren.”

  Armin takes a firm hold of his arm, and it makes it easier to break from Ackerman’s assaulting glare. He feels calmer when he looks to Armin, Armin who gives him a reassuring smile and says, “Let’s go,” in a nice, warm voice.

  As they walk down the cobbled path, Eren can feel the author’s eyes on him; it makes him hunch his shoulders.

  “Thanks, Armin.”

  Armin squeezes his arm in response. They reach the curb and they move down the street together.

  Eren’s heart is still hammering away in his chest, fuelled by the adrenaline of confrontation. Every word he threw at the writer is looping in his mind; words that he has never imagined himself saying in the scenarios he has frequently conjured in his mind. This is not how he has pictured meeting the man who he admires so greatly, whose writing has had such an impact on him…

  It is only when he knows they must be out of sight that Eren allows himself to relax. He slows his pace and Armin falls into step beside him. They walk in silence for about two minutes before Eren breaks.

  “Oh my god, Armin.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh my god.”

  Armin puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Eren.”

  “I just lectured Levi Ackerman!” he shouts, looking at Armin with an expression of horror. “Why did you let me do that?!”

  “Eren, calm down!” Armin begs. “He had it coming!”

  Eren blinks.

  “Really? You don’t think I was being unreasonable?”

  “No, I think he was the unreasonable one,” Armin says. “Besides, it’s not always sensible to stay silent, Eren. I think you did right in telling him. And…” he adds, a little hesitant, “he was clearly acting very… unprofessional.”

  Eren frowns, remembering the author's unsteadiness, the slight slur of his speech. They walk in silence for a while, both lost in their ruminations. 

  There are not many people out, even though it is still relatively early. Eren suspects that it is the cold and the dark that have chased them inside.

  “Armin.”

  He utters the name quietly, carefully, and Armin turns to him with a serious look on his face.

  “I’m not sure, but," he hesitates, taking a minute to breathe, to confirm that his skin is prickling, to check if the book really has slotted itself in-between his ribs, because it kind of feels like it. "I think he was challenging my father.”

  A wave of exhilaration runs through him as he says it.

  But Armin does not reply immediately, and Eren feels a peculiar anxiousness seething in him, like the eruption of a cold sweat. He wants Armin to confirm his suspicion; the flame inside him is flickering – it is so vulnerable. Armin is quiet, still in deep thought.

  They reach the end of the street and Armin halts beneath a streetlamp. Eren follows his example and slows to a stop next to his friend, eyes alight, watching him expectantly.

  “No,” Armin says eventually, his brow corrugated in a frown. “I think it was more than that.”

  Eren feels his breath catch in his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Rather than a simple challenge, I think it was a declaration of war.”


	2. Exposition

 “So, you’re telling me he didn’t talk about his book – at all?” Mikasa is asking.

 Armin shakes his head. “Not one word.”

 The night is pushing itself against the windows of the small coffee shop; any moment now the glass might shatter from the pressure, letting the darkness surge in and flood the room.

 Eren is nursing a hot cup of coffee between his palms, warmth seeping into him. There are the pleasant notes of a jazz record playing on low volume in the background. He has Armin, sitting on a stool beside him, and Mikasa, still wearing her apron, standing behind the counter, leaning her arms on the tabletop.

 Usually this is one of Eren’s most cherished moments, this time spent together with his best friends after closing time in the café where Mikasa works – it is a time when he feels most content, but tonight he is having trouble relaxing.

 It has been half an hour since Armin and he came in through the door, having walked the short distance from the House of Literature. Eren is sipping his coffee. Ackerman’s voice is still echoing in his head.

 The jazz music seems to be lagging, its pace frustratingly slow, and the warmth in the room appears deceitful, off-key.

 “That sucks,” says Mikasa, sympathetic words directed at Eren, mostly.

 “Yeah,” he sighs.

 He is disappointed, there is no use denying it. Still he does not feel as down as he thought he would. He has a feeling that they had witnessed something very important that night. Armin feels it, too.

 Ackerman had not talked about _Metaphysics_ , but he had talked about something - a Something that is so vast that it doesn’t properly fit inside Eren’s mind, like its edges are floating somewhere above his head.

 Armin and Eren have related the events of the evening to Mikasa and she is now trying to take it all in. Presently, she is going over the countertop with a washcloth, painting it with a damp pattern, while she muses. Eren’s eyes follow the hypnotising movement.

 “A statement, huh?” is all Mikasa can think of to say.

 Eren takes another sip of his coffee, which is still scalding hot. The burn is invigorating.

 “He is taking them on,” he says, animated; his words are shivering. “The institution, Jaeger Press House, and - my father.”

 The trio are quiet for a moment, contemplating what Eren has just said. His gaze dives into the black brew of his cup; Mikasa and Armin are watching him carefully.

 He almost can’t believe it. Someone has come along to challenge – no, declare war upon – the hegemony of his father. And this someone might actually have the strength to succeed.

 Eren feels the flame within him flare up, flickering feverishly, delightfully, dangerously.

 He recalls the look in Ackerman’s eyes, the steadfast determination, the menace – perhaps even the tiniest trace of madness.

 Eren remembers how powerless he had felt beneath Ackerman's stare – and Eren smiles.

 A different person, a different son, with a different father would most likely be worried in a situation like this. But Eren Jaeger is the son of Grisha Jaeger; president of Jaeger Press House – the oldest, most influential publishing house in the country – and Eren feels no such thing as concern on behalf of his father.

 Not because he considers his father’s imperium unassailable, but because he feels very little for his father in general — except from resentment. 

 He looks up to find Mikasa and Armin staring at him.

 “What is it?”

 After a brief pause, in which the pair exchanges a glance, Mikasa says, “We’re worried about you, Eren.”

 “Don’t be,” his smile widens. “I’m actually… really excited.”

 Armin and Mikasa are wearing matching grim expressions, and he is confused.

 “We can tell, Eren,” Armin’s voice is grave. “That’s why we’re worried.”

 Ah, of course.

 Eren rolls his eyes, he cannot help it, a little annoyed.

 “Don’t tell me you’re not excited, too, Armin.”

 Mikasa shoots Armin a glance. The blonde sighs heavily and he frowns a little, but the line of his mouth expresses a certain degree of partiality.

 “Well, yeah, I can’t deny it,” he admits, albeit a little subdued, “I do think Ackerman’s onto something.”

 Interpreting Armin’s restrained statement as encouragement, Eren launches into an excited acclamation, eyes shining.

 “Exactly! The literature Grisha publishes is so boring and conformist. And that’s all everybody ever reads,” he scoffs. “No wonder people have thrown themselves over _Metaphysics_ – it’s like a breath of fresh air.” He pauses, voice turning hard, “That said, although Ackerman is brilliant he seems like a real douche.”

 Armin nods in agreement, but he seems afraid of encouraging Eren any further.

 Mikasa is still cleaning the counter, biting her lip. She is about to say something when the sound of a phone ringing cuts through the air. Eren reaches into a pocket to retrieve the buzzing device. He cannot help the jolt of trepidation when he sees his father’s name on the screen.

 “It’s Grisha,” he says forebodingly.

 Armin turns pale. Mikasa freezes, still biting her lip.

 Eren picks up. “Hello?”

 “Eren. I apologise for calling this late.”

 “It’s fine. What’s up?”

 He is trying to keep cool, trying so hard not to sound suspicious. Grisha is quiet on the other end. Eren can feel his anxiety building.

 “I heard you were at the House of Literature this evening.” He gets straight to it, never one for beating about the bush.

 Eren’s eyes fall shut, shoulders sagging as he lets out a breath of defeat. Mikasa and Armin can tell what has just happened and they exchange worried glances. 

 Eren’s confession is muted. “Yes, I was.”

 There is no point in denying it. Most likely there were several people who had recognised him that evening, people who would all confirm him being there if asked. Eren had known the risk he was taking at the time, and honestly he had been prepared for the possibility of being found out. 

 “Well, how was he?”

 Eren can detect a hint of smugness in his father’s voice, a hint of mockery. Naturally, Grisha already knows everything about Ackerman’s performance.

 He already knows how the author handled himself, how he had been mildly intoxicated, how he had insulted his readership, how he had rejected the entire literary community, and most importantly, how he had challenged the Great Grisha Jaeger. Grisha knows all of this and more; he is not asking his son seeking to gain new information, he’s doing it to incite some sort of reaction from him.

 Eren’s grip on the phone tightens; his voice is shivering with words he cannot say.

 “He was… unorthodox.”.

 “Indeed, yes…”

 Eren doesn’t say anything; he is waiting for his father to continue, knowing that he will have more to say on the issue. When he speaks again his voice is dangerously low.

 “I wonder why you thought it a good idea to attend an event like that. Don’t you think it was an exceptional waste of time? Or is it that you think Ackerman’s work worthy of your attention?” 

 Eren hesitates. He is aggravated, but he is scared, too. There is something he lacks, he does not know what, but without it he cannot find his footing, and too often he finds himself conquered by his fear, threatened by a void.

 “I think his work is interesting,” he says, and he is proud that his voice doesn’t sound so shaky.

 “You do realise that as my only son and successor you have a certain duty to fulfil. You have an obligation to carry on the legacy of Jaeger Press House. I will not stand idly by and watch you poison yourself with Ackerman’s toxic literature. I forbid you to attend any other events he might appear at and you will not read his material anymore. I suggest you direct your interests elsewhere, to matters and subjects more appropriate for you and your future - you should be concentrating on your studies, _The Shiganshina Journal_ , your work in the bookstore and, most importantly, preparing for the time when you will start working at the Press House. If I hear that you have been present at any other events like this one, there will be consequences.”

 Eren can’t form the words he wants to say. It is like someone has cut off his tongue, yet there is no blood in his mouth; it is so dry he is having trouble swallowing.

 “Have I made myself clear?” his father’s voice cuts into his ear.

 “Yes.”

 “Good. I will see you soon - your mother’s birthday is coming up, after all. Good bye.”

 The song that has been winding itself through the café, curling and stretching itself out like a drowsy cat, is now dead. Some time ago it must have reached its end, but the record is still spinning. Eren can barely hear the soft wheezing of the needle, like something struggling to breathe. 

 He is over there in an instant. Lifting the needle, he relieves the black disk from its torment.

 For the next few minutes the café is all quiet.

 “He says that I can’t read Ackerman anymore or attend any of his events,” Eren says eventually, answering the silent question that is hanging in the air. He turns towards the two by the counter.

 When their eyes can behold him, he is suddenly conscious of the stiffness of his face, so he contorts his features for their sake.

 With a shrug and a smile, "Man, he really hates that guy."

 Red splotches appear in Mikasa’s cheeks; she purses her lips in an expression of repressed fury. Armin stares at Eren for a long while with something near despair, saying in a low, sombre tone,

 “Eren, that is really not okay...”

 It feels a little like having a needle pierce through his heart and Eren loses his composure.

 Slowly he returns to them, eyes cast down, muttering; he knows, but what can he do? there’s nothing he can do – he does not know what to do…

 They have a conversation they have had many times before. It is just as painful as usual, just as confusing for all of them, but perhaps more so for Mikasa and Armin, wanting so badly to help their best friend, but not knowing how to, not knowing where to begin –

 Because Eren does not know himself – where to begin. Where does he begin? Where does he end?

 The night remains on the other side of the glass, keeping its distance, yet clinging clammy close – they leave the warm lighted space and step out into its cold embrace. They walk back to the flat that they share in silence.

 Eren often finds solace in silence, but not that night. He is agitated, on edge, he feels feverish. There is an irritation, a violent awkward something within him, likely ugly, and it wants to burst from his chest and he is almost willing to let it. Almost.  
___

 The next morning Eren is the first to stir from his bed. It is a Saturday and he is up earlier than he needs to be. This morning he pours three cups of coffee into himself instead of his usual two. It is very quiet. Mikasa and Armin are still asleep.

 The three of them live together in an airy loft, its size perfect for the three of them. It is a cold place, being poorly insulated – and although pleasantly cool in summer, it is absolutely unforgiving in winter. The rent is, not cheap perhaps, but not exactly dear either. It is affordable, as affordable as a flat in this area of the city can be.

 More or less, the three of them are pleased with it, grateful for a roof under which they can all live together. A place where, in summer, they would press themselves together onto the small balcony, sipping cold beverages and complaining about the heat, and in winter, wrapping themselves up in woollen clothes to escape the punishing chill of the floor boards, and the draught from the windowpanes, huddling together for warmth on their lumpy sofa.

 For a cold place it is surprisingly warm.

 However, it is not so warm when Eren finds himself alone there. He wants to talk to Mikasa and Armin before he leaves, but they are fast asleep. It is a Saturday after all.

 The kitchen table where he sits is littered with all sorts of papers, books, and periodicals, most of it belonging to Armin and he. A few nights before they had been talking about their ideas for the next issue of _The Shiganshina Journal_ , a quarterly literary magazine whose editorial team they are both part of – Armin is the editor in chief.

 Eren remembers being excited about it, remembers having many ideas, remembers how enthusiastic he had been, how much he had talked that night.

 Now he can’t recall much of what it was he said. Somehow those ideas, at the time seeming so bright, so engaging, now seems to him dull, trivial, lifeless. His eyes fall upon the last edition of the _Journal_ , lying on top of a lexicon. He seizes it, looks at the contents page, leafs through it, reaches one of his pieces, quickly turns the page, lets the thing slide out of his hand back onto the table with a hollow ‘thump’.

 Ten more minutes go by as Eren sips the remnants of his coffee. He sighs. They are probably not getting up anytime soon. At any rate, he would see them at lunch later that day. He rises from his chair, pockets his keys and his wallet, and glides into the narrow hallway where he grabs his jacket from the wall. He retrieves his bag from his bedroom, before he slips out of the flat, closing the door behind himself quietly.

 The elevator is out of order – has been for months now – so he takes the stairs, winding himself down, down to ground level where, upon forcing the old door open, a solid grey day greets him.

 It is a fifteen-minute walk to the Jaeger Antique Bookstore. He would have half an hour to make up for yesterday’s abandoned work before he has to open the store. It will not be enough time, but it will have to do.

 It is a slow day; Eren feels its grey tendrils of sluggishness slipping into him, slowing him down, draining him of energy, of will, of feeling. He does not even have the strength to be angry with Auruo when he shows up, thus breaking the solemn oath of murder he swore the night before. For the better part of the morning Eren hides away upstairs amongst the rows of dusty books, cleaning, organising, and not really making much progress. He feels a little out of it, like he has misplaced his mind somewhere. Ah, fine, he relents, let me be mindless for a day.

 This state of depersonalisation, however, has the appreciated effect of protecting him from the peculiar atmosphere of the place; with its ever looming bookcases and the potent presence of the books that inhabits them; it shelters him from the feeling of always being watched, judged, like the place is punishing him for offending it in some way.

 Eren does not like it there. Yet – he does; it is quiet, familiar, safe, a hiding place, and there are books… Then why has the place always given him this uneasy feeling? This nausea? He doesn’t know. His head is starting to hurt.

 He takes a short break, seating himself on a stepladder placed between two shelves; a dusty beam of light issues from a high window illumining his spot. Whilst rummaging though his bag for a bottle of water, he happens upon a certain blue book. He cannot resist the temptation that it is, the itching under the tips of his fingers won’t be sated until he can feel the texture of the paper.

 Miraculously, as he turns the pages, Eren can feel his mind returning, not misplaced after all. It does not take long until the events of last night start to churn in his head. That is when an idea strikes him. It sinks its teeth into him, and finding, upon an attempt to shake it off, its reluctance to let go, he indulges it.

 It seems Auruo feels bad for last night’s shirking of responsibilities, and appears upstairs around noon to send Eren on his break, telling him to stay as long as he likes. Eren readily agrees and leaves that dusty, dreary place.

 He feels himself cheer up a little when he enters into the café where Mikasa works, the fragrant smell of coffee restoring some life to him. Armin is already seated by the counter, reading something and eating a sandwich. Eren takes a seat next to him.

 “Yo. What are you reading?”

 “Eren,” Armin looks up at him, giving him an easy smile. “I was just looking through the last _Journal_ ,” he says, handing him the very periodical Eren had flicked through that morning.

 Mikasa appears on the other side of the counter. There are a lot of customers and she hurriedly takes down Eren’s order before she vanishes.

 Eren is studying the cover of the journal. “Yeah, it was all right wasn’t it,” he says. “It was all right…”

 Armin snatches it out of his hands before he can stare more despondently at it.

 “Don’t be like that, Eren. We all put in a lot of effort. This is a good edition – don’t you dare say otherwise.” He wields the periodical in front of Eren’s face, wearing his strictest expression.

 “I know, I know,” Eren sighs, backing down. “It’s good, but it’s not – I don’t know – don’t you think it’s missing something?”

 Mikasa returns with a cup of coffee and his lunch. She can only afford to send the pair an inquisitive glance before she is away again; it is the busiest time of day after all.

 Armin lowers his arm and sets the periodical down on the counter, still looking at Eren, but his expression has changed. He looks bothered, a little frustrated.

 Perhaps he knows Eren is telling the truth. Perhaps he knows this even better than Eren.

 “What we’re doing,” Eren continues, unable to stop, “it’s nothing sensational. We’re playing safe, if you will.”

 Armin looks disapproving. “Eren, you, and the rest of the team, know as well as I do that we have to have a certain kind of content that agrees with those who are funding us. We have to play safe.”

 Eren groans into his coffee, not liking what Armin is saying, but knowing it to be true.

 “I’m not saying I like it either, Eren,” his voice is solemn. “But…” he places a hand on _The Shiganshina Journal_ , “I guess I’m just glad we get to make this much.”

 Eren is quiet. His coffee is already gone and he can’t remember finishing it, much less tasting it. His tongue is burning, though.

 “Imagine what it could be if we got to write about whatever we wanted to,” he sighs wistfully.

 Armin nods, agreeing, but does not feel inclined to add anything.

 The café is filled with a pleasant bustling. Armin sits, sipping his coffee, fingers idly playing with the leaves of the _Journal_. Eren’s commentary has evidently made an impression on him. Eren knows he is not alone in being frustrated. In their editorial team they have very ambitious people, Armin, perhaps being the most ambitious one of them all. The tragedy of it is that they cannot afford to be very ambitious, as their benefactors favour a certain kind of content. If they didn’t play by the rules, there would no longer exist any _Journal_.

 By looking at Armin’s pensive, downcast appearance, Eren realises that he has misjudged him. It seems clear to him now that Armin must feel more deeply on the subject than he, it has probably pained him for a considerable amount of time. As Armin is the magazine’s current editor in chief, this should not, perhaps, come as such a big surprise. Armin, more than any of them, has felt the many curbs of the formidable alliance that is the Shiganshina University and their biggest benefactor – Jaeger Press House.

 Grisha Jaeger’s influence and power can be traced in many bodies of society, and it is hard to exaggerate the strength of the ties between the Press House and Shiganshina University.

 Created around the same time two centuries before, the two institutions have a long history of cooperation, as both found early on, that they shared many mutual interests, thus making their affiliation desirable for the both of them. Together they effectively strengthened their positions in society and ever since then have they been a force to be reckoned with in culture as well as politics.

 Students at Shiganshina University often go on to work at the Press House, serving to increase the attachment further, and to this very day many of the current executives of the Press House are former students, lecturers, or employees from Shiganshina University, and they take an active interest in everything happening there. Student organisations in which they are interested receive a generous amount of money – _The Shiganshina Journal_ is one of these lucky organisations.

 However, Jaeger Press House’s preference for traditional content, of theses renowned and appreciated, and writers and thinkers answering well with their conservative values and morals, severely limits the subjects the students can explore. Liberal or experimental literature does not agree with Jaeger Press House, and there have been near brushes, when the content of a periodical has not been appropriate enough, where the termination of funding has been threatened. It is an elaborate system of control and direction – a true cultural autocracy.

 Eren has always felt its weight on his shoulders, ever since he was quite young, even before he learnt to read, before he could appreciate literature, before he understood his father’s position in society. To him, his father has always appeared tyrannical; the flash of his glasses that resembled that of a knife, and how his sharp voice would cut like one, how he was like an eclipse whenever Eren had done something wrong, how he said to Eren’s mother, when she was still alive, things that would puncture her eyes. In the end, as a final act of subjection to her husband, Carla Jaeger had relinquished her life.

 It was when Eren grew older that he came to understand just how far outside of their home Grisha’s tyranny reached.

 “I do wish,” comes Armin’s quiet voice, “I do wish we had something fresh, but there are limits to how fresh we can get…”

 Eren’s heart maintains an irregular beat - the thought that struck him when leafing through _Metaphysics_ earlier that day has morphed into something heavy, potent, and it is resting on his tongue, locked behind his teeth. Eren has decided. There is nothing for it; the idea has already consumed him.

 “Why don’t we do a piece on Ackerman? On _Metaphysics_.”

 Armin turns to look at him like he has just suggested that they strangle a puppy, or something like it.

 “What did you just say?”

 “I want to write a piece on Ackerman in the next edition.”

 Armin is struck dumb.

 At that moment Mikasa appears before them again, asking them ‘what’s wrong’, when Armin directs his astounded expression towards her, pleading her to help him save the idiot that is sitting next to him – good god, save the poor boy!

 “Did you – did you even hear what I just said, Eren? I mean, do you understand the nature of our problem?”

 Eren breathes. Mikasa looks at them both in turn, evidently confused by what is transpiring.

 “Yes, I do.”

 “What?” Mikasa persists.

 “I don’t think you do, Eren.”

 Armin is still looking at him in amazement, like he cannot believe what he is hearing – it is very irritating.

 “Look, Armin, I’m being serious. I think we should do it.”

 “Do what?” Mikasa is getting impatient.

 “Write about Ackerman in the next _Journal_.”

 “Can you _do_ that?”

 “No, we can’t,” Armin hurries to say. “If we did we’d lose our funding.”

 “No, we won’t,” says Eren, and then, when receiving one of Armin’s most sceptical looks, “Okay fine, we will, but not immediately, is what I’m getting at. Like, toeing the line with one periodical is not going to cost us our funding, I’m sure. Grisha and the rest of the geezers love the _Journal_ , so they won’t abandon us over one little piece on Ackerman. Tell you what, if we really make an effort to make it the most boring edition ever made, they probably won’t even notice a small little piece about _Metaphysics_.”

 Eren is grinning; Armin is not; Mikasa looks amused.

 Armin lets out an exasperated sigh and shakes his head.

 “Eren, I’m sorry, but this is crazy – and you know it.”

 “Yes – it is crazy!” Eren declares, face heating up, lending warmth to his appeal. “But crazy is good, Armin! Crazy is what we want, what we need – and you know it!”

 It is difficult to deny the contagiousness of Eren’s energy when he first gets going, and although Armin is not so much swayed by feeling as reason, he can still feel its effect. So he sits, mouth agape, arrested by the zeal of his friend, unsure what to think or say.

 Mikasa breaks out into laughter.

 “Oh, Eren, the master of rhetoric!”

 Eren is still grinning, waiting for Armin to speak. He looks like an overexcited puppy. Armin feels like he needs to do something quickly, before things go any further.

 “Look, Eren, I know how much you love _Metaphysics_ , and I can see why you would want to write about it – believe me, I’d love to see a piece like that in the _Journal_ , too – but you know just as well as I that there would be consequences.”

 'Consequences' – there is a word Eren despises.

 “Armin, it’s time don’t you think?” Eren’s words are solemn, and his look matches them, in essence and in weight. “If not now, then when?”

 Armin closes his mouth; his eyes scan over Eren’s honest features. He is not raving, he does not seem delusional; he is serious.

 “I feel like this is the time,” the boy with the bright green eyes persists, hands shaking. He thinks of the blue book, he thinks of Ackerman’s speech the night before. Things are unfolding around them, change is ahead; he can sense it – but he wants to taste it, too.

 “Let’s do something – one little rebellion – and then see what happens.”

 Armin bites his lip and averts his gaze from the bright light before him.

 What Eren is talking about is tempting. It is so very tempting – but it is reckless.

 “As I said, one measly magazine won’t put them off. We’ll probably get a warning, but that’s that.”

 Blond eyelashes keep darting down to hide Armin’s blue eyes; his hands are clasped around his empty cup, gaze dipping into it at intervals, as if there might be an answer waiting for him on the bottom.

 Mikasa takes it from him and says, “Armin, I think Eren’s right this time.”

 He looks at her, and then he looks at Eren. He sits back in his chair, muttering, “Yeah, maybe.”

 It is not consent, not yet, but he's getting there. Eren opens his mouth, determined to put his skills of persuasion to the test, but Armin halts him.

 “We’ll have to talk to the others,” is what he says. “If they agree then I guess we can try it.”

 Eren is beaming, the bright light he emanates is nearly blinding.

 “Yes! Great! Awesome!” and he jumps a little in his chair from his excitement.

 Mikasa and Armin are smiling, smiles that hurt a little – this is a rare sight, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This thing is slowly but surely coming together.. I'm honestly very excited to see what you will think of it all. Feel free to leave a comment if you want. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> (edited: 02/05/2015)


	3. The desire to fall apart

 A mountain of books rises menacingly before Eren. He has been digging into it tirelessly for several hours and yet it does not seem to be reduced at all. What’s worse is that he knows there is an endless amount still waiting for him upstairs when he finishes cataloguing the ones before him.

 The books have been collecting there in the store for the better part of a century, and recently Grisha Jaeger decided that their inventory is not satisfying enough, judging it incomplete and inaccurate, which it is, and thus sentencing Eren and Auruo to make new ones. They are on their third week now and Eren can still see no end to it.

 He is having a hard time focusing on his papers and the letters that are lined up upon them; it’s like they are retreating into the paper, making themselves as tiny as possible, trying to slip away from him, to escape him; they are too many and too slippery and his head is hurting like murder. Leaning back in his chair he closes his eyes for a moment, wishing that the punishing headache would relent.

 It has been a long day. On top of the gruelling work he is facing in the bookstore he has had morning classes that day, plus a very hectic meeting with the _Journal_ ’s editorial team. It turns out that not everyone is as enthusiastic about going out on the limb that Eren is wildly directing them to. He needs to convince them somehow, tempt them with something; something that will make them feel like it is worth risking their magazine for. 

 He lets out a sigh and reluctantly returns to his work, peering at the titles stacked up in front of him and scribbling them down. Thankfully he is closing soon, he realises, as he glances at his watch. God, he’s going to have the best night’s sleep ever.

 That is when he hears the door creaking open, and the bell chimes innocently as it announces a customer. 

 Unbelievable. 

 "We're closing in ten minutes," Eren shouts. 

 He doesn’t sound polite at all, and he doesn’t even try – he's exhausted and annoyed, and the last thing he needs is a slow browser only minutes before closing. He keeps his eyes buried in the work, thinking that if he does not encourage the person, they will take the hint and leave. Alas, he can hear footsteps upon the wooden floor as the customer makes their way into the shop, headed for the desk where he sits.

 Sighing inwardly, he puts on a smile that feels uncomfortable on his lips and prepares to ask the person if they need any assistance. The sound of footsteps ceases and a voice says:

 "You’re Eren Jaeger." 

 He freezes. Eren knows who that voice belongs to.

 The smile he has composed withers as he looks up to see Levi Ackerman, with his black hair and black clothes, leaning nonchalantly on a bookshelf.

 A sudden chill strikes Eren as he is transported back to the moment when he for the first time, and last, saw the author; the experience of the man’s terrifying aura having seeped into his blood and remained there like quicksilver, his every word painfully etched onto his brain.

 The initial shock passes, yet Eren does not feel content, far from it. Seeing the author standing there, in front of him, there is an uneasiness; the author’s presence in the shop feels wrong.  

 “You’re Grisha Jaeger’s kid, ” Ackerman continues, studying him.

 It sounds like an accusation.

 “So?”

 Ackerman doesn’t answer. He lets the moment stretch into a silence as he examines the person before him with indelicate leisure.

 Although taken aback at first, surprised by his sudden appearance, and now being subjected to close scrutiny, Eren finds that he is not as fazed as he thought he would be.

 He notices that the man looks healthier than before; his black hair is well groomed, his face is not as pale, and his eyes do not have that feverish shine to them that Eren can remember so well. The man looks sane.

 But there is something else too that sets him apart from the man who stared at him so balefully a few days before. Now there is something new in his demeanour – suspicion, Eren thinks.

 “Grisha Jaeger,” Ackerman muses, expelling the name from his mouth. “He’s a very influential man.”

 The way the author is acting, the way he’s talking – it bothers Eren. Abruptly he rises from his chair, blood already pounding in his ears. He does not like that the writer is there, in the store. He should not be here.

 “Is there anything you want?” he says, words clipped. “I’m closing now.”

 The playful look in the man’s expression immediately vanishes. Eren watches as Ackerman’s eyes harden, and is intrigued by it. The author is annoyed, Eren can tell, and he feels a small jab of satisfaction because of it. Adopting a serious and more purposeful manner, Ackerman pushes off from the bookshelf.

 “I’m here to apologise.”

 It neither looks nor sounds as if he parts happily with those words.

 “Apologise?” Eren echoes.

 Ackerman certainly does not look very apologetic, nor does he occur to Eren as a person who easily admits fault. The scepticism in Eren’s tone is not lost on the writer, who fixes him with a glare, and folds his arms across his chest – a protective stance. The image of a hedgehog returns to Eren’s mind.

 “My editor made me come here.”

 “Your editor?” Eren echoes again.

 “Erwin Smith.”

 Eren knows the name well. As the editor of Ackerman’s _Metaphysics_ , Erwin Smith has become one of the most prominent editors of Titan Publishing – the publisher Ackerman is signed to. Titan Publishing is a relatively new press house. One day it suddenly appeared, and soon made a name for itself by publishing rather unorthodox literature, despite the bad market it faces in a city oppressed by tradition.

 Needless to say, Eren’s father despises them, and considers them to be the number one threat to his own publishing company.

 Eren remembers the tall blonde man who had been with Ackerman the other day.

 “Was he the one with you at the House of Literature?”

 The author nods, a little impatiently. He has not ceased his tireless stare and it is starting to freak Eren out a little. The two of them are very much alone in the shop.

 “Let me make one thing clear.”

 The writer’s voice cuts through the silence so abruptly that it makes Eren wince. He finds it unnecessarily loud and his skin prickles uncomfortably when he hears it echoing off of the bookshelves. He grits his teeth.

 “I’m only apologising for what I said about you – my readers.”

 “Lower your voice, please,” Eren snaps, before the man can finish his sentence.

 Ackerman looks puzzled, momentarily disoriented by the sudden request. The author’s voice is not particularly loud, but in this place the sound of it is making Eren feel ill; it is the wringing of a nerve, a burrowing in his gut.

 Unwilling to meet the inquisitive look he is given, Eren busies himself with the papers on his desk, arranging them in a brisk manner, communicating his desire to get the conversation over with.

 Resolving not to comment on this peculiarity, the author continues, albeit in a voice respectfully lowered.

 “I do believe that there are many people whose so-called devotion is of little value, but I can see now that what I said was disrespectful; I made light of people’s feelings. I realise that my words may have been hurtful to some. I regret that.”

 Eren’s hands abandon the papers when his eyes betray him; they are drawn back to the writer.

 “After all,” Ackerman’s tone changes to a softer, more pleasant one, sending an unexpected shiver through Eren, as he did not know that the writer, in fact, could sound anything like that. “After all, it seems like there are people who are genuinely devoted to my work.”

 A smile is playing on Ackerman’s lips, and Eren is suddenly aware of what book his recent organising of papers has revealed. It is too late to cover it up, the writer has already seen the blue book. His eyes are glittering with amusement when they return to the younger man.

 Eren does not know why it bothers him to such a degree, the writer learning just how much he admires him. The urge to vehemently deny his obvious devotion is inexplicably strong; to somehow explain why he seems to be carrying the book around with him everywhere he goes, why it looks exhausted from eager perusal. Eren thinks that if the man had been anyone else he would not have had such a problem with it – if only the man had acted a little differently.

 “And what about your statement?” Eren says face burning, desperate to change the subject.

 Again the teasing look vanishes from Ackerman’s face – eyes narrowing, jaw setting; it is like the putting up of a shield, the preparing for battle.

 “My statement still stands,” he says, voice cold and hard without any trace of the mellifluousness it had boasted of before, and it makes Eren think he might have imagined it. It is strange how he does that; the man is so… volatile.

 “Nothing will change my mind about that literary institution,” and then with a smile, sweet, but not warm, “Nor will I ever change my mind about your father.”

 He doesn’t need to say what he thinks about Grisha, it is fairly evident.

 Ackerman is regarding him very closely then, and in his features are traces of that malice Eren has seen before, more potent now.

 Ackerman does not like him, he realises. In fact, after finding out who he is, the author probably hates him.

 To Ackerman, Eren must stand for everything he despises. To him, he is the literal devil’s spawn.

 Eren is not sure what to think of this revelation.

 Ackerman’s gaze does not let him go. The severity of it makes Eren afraid of slipping, of saying something wrong; it makes him stand very still, makes him breathe less greedily.

 No, he decides, standing there frozen, Ackerman’s gaze bearing down upon him with the weight and the coldness of a glacier. He does not like it, the fact that the author has misjudged him so gravely. It angers him.

 Still, he feels the flame within him spark; and it is not unpleasant.

 It is the man before him who lit it, but how could a man like that, so cold and forbidding, have produced this reaction in him? How could he have written the words of _Metaphysics_? It is inconceivable to Eren.  

 It is cold there; it is always cold in the store.

 Ackerman is bored, it seems, of his torture. He straightens his jacket; his eyes leave Eren in favour of doing a quick, condescending circuit of the room.

 “Well, that was what I came for. Goodbye,” and with that he turns to leave.

 “Wait,” the word springs from Eren’s mouth before he can withhold it.

 Ackerman turns to him, eyebrow arched questioningly.

 "Have coffee with me."

 Outside, a truck rattles by, cutting off the light from the streetlamps across the road, it turns the shop murky for a brief moment. Ackerman is peering at him over his shoulder, brow furrowed, as he considers him.

 "What?"

 Heat is rising in Eren’s cheeks, but he persists. 

 "Could you… I was wondering if I could ask you some questions – about _Metaphysics._ ”

 It would be absurd of him to let the author escape now that he is right there. If they are really going to do a piece on Ackerman in the _Journal,_ then this is the perfect opportunity to gain material.The _Journal_ aside, the mere thought of being able to question Ackerman about _Metaphysics_ is making Eren near dizzy. There is so much he would like to ask…

 Ackerman looks confounded, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe, but next they are descending, coming down to vault his eyes; which slip from the student and over to the book that is lying on the table; exposed. When the author looks back at him, Eren thinks he can detect curiosity in his features, yet that suspicion from before remains.

 Ackerman is silent as he subjects the younger man to yet another analysis, inclining his head ever so slightly and crossing his arms.

 Eren shifts uncomfortably under his stare; the writer’s eyes are so sharp, he’s a little afraid of what he reads when he looks at him like that.

 Eren clears his throat. Ackerman uncrosses his arms.

 “Fine,” he says, and his voice is soft, deceptively soft.

 Eren’s face breaks out into a grin. He almost can’t believe it – he has been granted audience with Levi Ackerman.

 “Really?”

 The author stares, blinks; turns around and heads for the exit.

 “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

 “What - now?”

 “Yes - now.”

 “But I need to close up first.”

 “Then hurry the fuck up.”

 It is curiously demanding, going about the usual routine before closing. Not only is Eren hurrying to get it done, but all the while he can feel Ackerman’s eyes on him. And also… he would be talking about _Metaphysics_ soon, with the very person who wrote it, and for the life of him, he can’t stop his hands from shaking.   

 “Oi, if you don’t hurry up I’m leaving.” 

 The author is still standing by the entrance, impatiently tapping out a rhythm on the wooden floor.

 “Calm down. I need to do this before we leave – I’m almost done. Make yourself useful and turn the sign for me, please.”

 Counting the register is never a long ordeal, as they have very few customers, today being no exception. Eren does not get a reply from the author, but the tapping has stopped. Glancing up, he sees Ackerman staring at him with a look of indignation painted on his face.

 “What?”

 The author sets his mouth in a thin line.

 “Nothing,” he snaps, “just get on with it, jesus christ.”

 But he turns the sign, albeit with more force than necessary.

 Eren closes the register, hiding a smile. “Okay, I’m done.”

 Without a word, Ackerman steps outside, and Eren follows as quickly as he can, hurriedly pulling on his coat and grabbing his bag, afraid that the man might escape him outside in the night.

 Eren only stops to turn the lights off, swiftly, hurrying from the feeling of being encased in a tomb. Ackerman is still there when Eren is released out onto the pavement.

 A stream of fresh, cold air breathes into him; his lungs expand, his heart is beating out a rhythm – life signs.

 There is a light rain, and it feels nice on the skin of his face, which feels warm, maybe even a little warmer than usual.

 The keys in his hand jingle obnoxiously as he locks up, as if they are conspiring against him.

 “So this is what you do?” he hears Ackerman intone from behind him. “Work for your father like a good boy?”

 Eren turns to face the man who is eyeing him with a scornful smile. He tells himself that he shouldn’t be surprised by this, that he shouldn’t let himself be goaded like that. He won’t play Ackerman’s game. So he lets it slide, telling the writer, albeit in a chilly tone, that he works there part time.

 Ackerman looks disappointed, but his eyes are glinting. He squints through the half-light at the sign in front, not without distaste, reading _Jaeger Antique Bookstore_ in faded, golden letters. He makes a sound low in his throat.

 “Does it bring any profit, though?”

 Eren laughs, pocketing his keys and adjusting his shoulder strap.

 “Not at all. But Grisha insists on keeping it going. It’s been in the family for generations.”

 Ackerman’s eyes are quick; they alight on Eren in an instant.

 “Grisha?”

 Eren smiles wryly.

 “I’m sure you’ve heard of him,” and he starts to move down the street.

 Ackerman quickly takes the lead and guides them in the direction he wants. He keeps watching Eren as they walk, and he is not trying to be subtle about it.

 “Part time, huh? So you’re studying?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Let me guess,” Ackerman says sardonically. “Literature, by any chance?”

 “Correct.”

 The asphalt stretching out before them is coated in a sheen of sweat; it glitters in the light issuing from the shops along the street.

 “And when you finish your studies you’ll go on to work for your father?”

 It is said in an incredibly soft voice, but it does not succeed in cushioning the blow; Eren goes silent.

 In a rare display of empathy, Ackerman decides to not pursue the subject further. Sharp eyes or no, it is plain to see that his comment has upset the boy.

 Although it is not terribly late, the darkness is rapidly tightening around them as they hurry down the street, following it in twists and turns, riddling themselves further into the maze of the city. The rain is light and pleasant; it is Eren’s favourite rain.

 He notices, in orange light shed from a nearby street lamp, the writer's worn coat. Its collar is crumpled, an annoying crease that seems permanent; like you can't straighten it out no matter how hard you try. Eren pictures the writer trying but ultimately failing at straightening it out, finally leaving it in its current state because, what the hell, he can't be bothered, let it be. 

 The man is striding down the street, moving along swiftly with purpose in every step, his short legs evidently no impediment for him, and Eren finds himself struggling to keep up. 

 "So, where are we going?"

 " _Nowhere_ ,” he takes a left at the end of the street, “– it's a bar," Ackerman clarifies when he sees the indignant look growing on the student's face, obviously thinking the author is taunting him again. 

 "Oh. Never heard of it before."

 Ackerman shrugs. "You wouldn’t have. It's nothing special."

 When they eventually reach their destination, Eren can see what the writer means.

 The bar lies in a dismal street close by the river, and it doesn't stand out at all, squeezed in between a tobacco store on one side; which looks like a relic from the previous century, and a locksmith’s on the other.

 The entrance is a metal door; with the name 'Nowhere' in black stencilled letters above it. It is hard to spot it in the dark, and Eren thinks that if you did not know it was there you would walk straight past it. Ackerman opens the door, letting Eren in first, before following him inside. 

 Eren expects a seedy bar full of drunks and an assortment of shady characters, but to his surprise the place looks surprisingly clean, nothing at all like what its front suggests, and there really aren’t very many people in there. It is incredibly small and narrow, so you couldn't fit many people in there anyway.

 A calm atmosphere, music playing softly in the background; blues – Miles Davis? – and the lighting is dim, nice and gentle on the eyes.

 The first thing that strikes Eren about the people sitting around is that they look lonely, even those who sit in pairs of two or three, talking. Some of them look up when they enter.

 Peculiarly, he finds that their eyes linger by him, not by Ackerman, and Eren suddenly feels very self-conscious.

 He glances over at the author, catching him as he runs a hand through his hair, which is a little damp from the rain, and for a moment, finds himself mesmerised by the movement of pale fingers gliding through black locks.

 Ackerman moves towards the bar and, bracing himself, Eren follows him, gliding through the small space, ignoring the eyes resting on him, and takes a seat next to the writer. A tall woman standing behind the counter, leisurely towelling a glass, directs her attention to them.

 “Good evening, Levi,” she says, a good-humoured smile on her lips.

 Her brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, leaving her expressive face open. Her brown eyes glint perspicaciously behind thick-rimmed glasses as she turns them on Eren.

 "What can I get you boys?”

 “Two beers, please, Hanji. And none of that light bullshit you keep trying to push on me.”

 “Aye, aye.”

 She pours them two pints, putting them on the sticky countertop, before she moves down to the other end of the bar to give them some privacy, chatting easily with a patron.

 Ackerman is quick to sip from his drink. The strong taste of hop stings Eren’s tongue as he tips the liquid into his mouth, and he supresses the urge to make a face. Ackerman, on the other hand, looks pleased with the beverage. He turns to Eren with a more relaxed expression on his face.

 In the warm lighting he doesn’t look as pale. His eyes are pale, though, grey as they steal across the student’s face. Eren takes another sip of the drink.

 “So, what do you want to know?”

 What does he want to know? There’s so much… He’s not sure where to start. Damn, he hasn’t had enough time to plan this.

 The complacent smile stretching on the author’s lips, however, irks Eren, inhibits him.

 “Well,” he says, pulling out a pen and a notebook from his bag. “We are considering writing a piece about your novel in our student literary periodical, _The Shiganshina Journal._ So anything you could tell me would be great.”

 The author narrows his eyes. Eren wonders if he has perhaps made a mistake in mentioning the _Journal._

 “Really, now?” 

 “Yes, I’m trying to gather material, and an interview with you would be invaluable.”

 “Hmm,” the author takes a sip of his beer, eyes letting Eren go for a brief moment, but returning sharper, Eren imagines, than before. “You didn’t mention that earlier.”

 “I just… I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

 Which is true – he has no idea what kind of thoughts Ackerman has on the _Journal_ , if any at all.

 The author inclines his head, black hair caressing his eyebrows.

 “And here I was, thinking that you were, perhaps, _personally_ interested in the book.”

 The teasing lilt to his voice is annoying yet paradoxically pleasant on the ears. Eren can feel himself heating up.

 “I guess I was wrong,” Ackerman continues, still watching him closely. “You’re a Jaeger, after all.”

 “I’m not ‘a Jaeger’,” Eren bites out. “I’m not my father.”

 Eren’s fingers curl around the pen he is holding, pushing its cap into the flesh of his palm.

 The author considers him for a moment, but Eren doesn’t indulge him, turning his attention to his drink, taking a few long sips. When he glances over at the writer he finds that his eyes have not left him.

 “And yet you are a ‘Jaeger’,” he says. “The word has more than one sense, then?”

 “Most words do, don’t they?”

 The author is smiling, eyes glinting mischievously.

 “Yes, yes they do.”

 They are brushing against something, nearly touching on it, that is why Ackerman is smiling, perhaps waiting for Eren to ask him – so he does.

 “Your language,” he says, feeling the first ‘thump’ in his chest, “Why do you do that with your language?”

 Ackerman is finishing his drink, and is already ordering another round for them, which the brown haired woman puts before them presently.

 “Do what?” he reflects, aiming his gaze back on the student.

 Eren breathes. “It’s – it’s falling apart and yet it’s beautiful; it’s incoherent and incomprehensible, and still I feel like I understand it. Why?”

 “You think it’s strange that you find something chaotic beautiful?” the author is saying, voice smooth and sonorous. “Isn’t there something tempting about chaos?” 

 Eren hasn’t even removed the cap on his pen. Realising, he does so quickly, averting his eyes from Ackerman; piercing the white paper in his notebook with the tip.

 He forces himself to calm down before he looks up again, clinging to the pen. More of the brown liquid finds its way into his mouth; the bitter taste of hop doesn’t bother him anymore. Eren clears his throat.

 “When did you start writing?”

 Ackerman looks dissatisfied by the change of gears, bored with the uninteresting question.

 “From the moment I knew how to spell,” he says offhandedly, taking another sip of his beer.

 “What about _Metaphysics_? When did you start?”

 The writer stops to think.

 “I wrote it over the course of two years, I think. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to publish it or not, but coming back to Shiganshina, I knew I had to.”

 Eren watches as he pops open the top button of his shirt, revealing pale skin. Fine eyebrows furrowing, he rubs at his neck; Eren imagines it must be sore, perhaps from sitting bent over his writing all day. It is a little hot in there.

 “This town hasn’t changed,” the author is saying. “One can hardly breathe here.”

 Looking at him, Eren is struck by the realisation of how real Ackerman is. For the writer of a novel called _Metaphysics_ he is surprisingly corporeal, yet still elusive. There is a fine balance there. 

 “You were away?” Eren asks, catching on to the first part of his statement.

 “I only just came back recently,” he yawns. “Sad to find it as stifling as before.”

 Eren wants to hear more, but the dismissive way in which Ackerman relates it makes him think that the author doesn’t want to talk about it, so he lets it go.

 “It is stifling,” Eren agrees.

 Ackerman places his elbow on the counter, resting his head in his hand as he looks at Eren, eyes catching on him with interest.

 “My, my. Is the crown prince feeling constrained?”

 Eren is colouring again and there are no words in his mouth. In an act of good nature, Ackerman relents – temporarily.

 Their glasses are empty, and the bartender is summoned yet again to refill them. It seems like Ackerman and she get along rather well, and Eren gets the feeling that they’ve known each other for some time. He watches them interact with curiosity.

 When the author directs his attention to him again, he still has that playful smile intact.  

 Eren doesn’t notice, gratefully swallowing down the drink that has been put before him. He can feel its effect already. It’s been a while since he drank, so it goes to his head quickly. Ackerman is saying something.

 “You were so offended back then, weren’t you, Eren?” He doesn’t miss how his name rolls off of Ackerman’s tongue. “By what I said in my speech. I thought about it, wondering why it should make you so upset. And I figured it had to be because you took it personally.."

 Eren wishes he could blame the alcohol for the heat in his face. He doesn’t reward the writer with a comment; he pretends he didn’t hear, taking another sip of his beer. It doesn’t taste so bitter anymore.

 “You haven’t written down anything that I’ve said,” the author observes, nodding towards Eren’s notebook, which is, indeed, still blank, except from a black stain in the corner, where the ink has bled into the paper; it looks like a puncture wound.

 “Well, you haven’t said all too much,” Eren defends himself.

 “Maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”

 “Ok, fine,” he turns his gaze upon the writer, done with avoiding him. “Why did you call your novel _Metaphysics_?”

 This silences the writer. His smile is still intact, but he is quiet. 

 “Who knows?” he says elusively.

 Eren gets the impression that the author is playing with him, entertained by his attempts to field his slippery nature. Eren, however, doesn't find it discouraging.

 “Are you taking down my father?” he asks, nearly breathless.

 “Do you want me to take down your father?”

 Eren swallows, recklessly staring back into Ackerman’s eyes.

 There is something tempting about chaos. Perhaps it is the falling apart, the loss of control, the disorder, the lack of form - is that it?

 The desire to fall apart? Why does one want to fall apart?

 The flame within, steadily burning, grows as it feeds on the substance in Ackerman’s eyes, and he feels himself turning hotter under his stare – it is thrilling.

 Eren’s eyes act of their own accord, slipping down to the man’s lips, and further, to the pale expanse of his neck. When he locks his gaze onto the writer’s once more, he notices that he is feeling a little light headed; drunk from looking into those grey pools for so long.

 He bites his lip, muttering, “Who knows?”

 It is nothing short of sublime to watch the features of the author’s face as they ripple, light and shadow playing together as he beholds the brunet in front of him. A fascinated smile is curling his lip ever so slightly.

 Suddenly Eren’s phone is buzzing in his pocket and he swears at the rude interruption that drags him back to reality. Now he can hear the pulsing of his heart and feel the slight shaking of his hand as he furiously withdraws his phone.

 It’s Mikasa. She is only calling to check on him, she says. She and Armin were a little worried since he did not come home after work and he hadn’t mentioned any plans for the night. He’s fine, he assures them, he’ll be back soon. Where is he? Eren glances over at the writer who is watching him as he speaks, quietly sipping his beer. They wouldn’t believe him if he told them.

 He hangs up and pockets his phone. Eren’s heart is still beating too hard. Perhaps that phone call was a good thing.

 “Well, uhm.. It's getting a little late. I guess I should get going,” he says, a little awkwardly.

 Ackerman is silent.

 “But… I was wondering, would you be up for answering some more questions about your book? It would be a great help.”

 The author leaves him a little anxious for a short time, presumably enjoying Eren’s nervous appearance, but finally he says,

 “Sure, I don’t mind,” and Eren is a little surprised at this sudden cooperativeness.

 Ackerman takes the notebook from him, scribbling down a number in a near unintelligible hand, and Eren almost can’t believe it – is this really happening?

 “There you go."

 “Thanks, Mr Ackerman,” he says, reverently accepting the notebook, “Honestly, I’m so grateful.”

 The writer looks at him and it’s hard to interpret his expression when he says,

 “Don’t thank me yet, kid. And please – it’s Levi.”

 His voice is warm and full. Eren swallows.

 “Thanks, Levi,” his voice a little shaky. The author is smiling again.

 “Well, then, I’ll be looking forward to your call, Eren.”

 Never before had his name felt like a punch in the gut. A little flustered, he thanks the author, and moves to pay for his drinks, but Ackerman insists that it’s on him, and Eren doesn’t really have the strength to argue, so he just thanks him again, before he takes his coat and leaves before he can make a fool out of himself.

 The door closes shut behind him and Levi is left alone at the bar, but not for long, as Hanji sneaks down towards him, staring after the one who just left. She whistles. 

 “Damn, Levi. Who’s the hottie?”

 The author chuckles and finishes off his drink. 

 “That,” he says, “was Eren Jaeger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, here's another chapter :) I hope you like it! Levi is introduced a little more in this one, and Eren is a fanboy trying to repress/deny his obvious enthusiasm. 
> 
> I honestly don't know how often you can expect this updated, but I'm thinking around every other week or so.
> 
> (and I changed the summary because it sucked and was vague as fuck lmao I can't do summaries) 
> 
> I would appreciate it a bunch if you left your thoughts! Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Oh, and my tumblr is central-and-remote, if you're interested :)


	4. Teeth

 There are wild daffodils growing at the cemetery. They crane their necks over the tall grass in between the gravestones; showing off their pretty yellow heads as the sun beams down upon them with a soft, shy light.

 It is a soft, shy day – early spring, where the sun is a little insecure still. It is mostly quiet; there is only the susurrus of the wind in the pine trees and in the grass. It is a careful, considerate day; soft-spoken, attentive, careful, tender – motherly.

 Ultimately, it is a forlorn day.

 Eren’s knees are hurting; so he rises, gaze leaving the cold stone before him. For it is cold – the stone – staggeringly cold, it hurt when he touched it earlier.

 A painful reminder. That is why he does not often come here anymore.

 His bouquet of lilies rests snugly beside a spray of pink carnations; Mikasa and Armin have already been there before him to pay their respects. Each year they ask if he wants them to accompany him; each year he tells them no. He is not sure what would happen if they came with him, doesn’t think he wants to find out.

 A long breath leaves him, and it is not as steady as he would like it to be; the tight tension in his chest does not throb moderately, and he is angry, thinking it is a lie what they said, because in that moment it does not feel like the swelling has gone down at all, and it has been eleven years since Carla Jaeger passed away.

 _Passed away_  – never has a euphemism offended him more, its meaning an untruth. It is a lie and an offence. There had been no peaceful, dignified death for his mother; there had only been despair, and alcohol, and open wrists.

 She had not _“passed away”_ , she had taken her own life, and yet he cannot recall ever having heard the word “suicide” spoken in relation to her death.

 Only the closest family knew of course, the public being none the wiser about what actually happened. It was only said that she died of illness, as to tell the truth would undoubtedly damage the press house, which, of course, could not be allowed to happen.

 Oh, it had been a tragic affair. Poor Grisha Jaeger, losing his wife – and she so young – and they were such a lovely family; so beautiful, so successful – oh, and the poor boy, the son – what’s his name? Oh, what a tragedy, what a shame – poor Grisha Jaeger, it must be awful, absolutely awful, and having to raise the child on his own – terrible, terrible...

 The wild daffodils aren’t craning their necks; their heads hang heavy, they scowl at the earth; Eren wants to pluck their heads from their stalks.

 When he turns around his father is standing there, towering, bespectacled, blocking off the sun. He carries a bouquet of roses, their colour a violent red. It is upsetting.

 “So you came,” he says to his son.

 Reluctantly, Eren steps aside to let him place the flowers on the grave, next to Mikasa and Armin’s carnations and his own lilies.

 “Of course,” Eren scoffs. “I always do, it’s just that I prefer to come here by myself.”

 Grisha does not say anything; he stands with his back to Eren, looking down at the grave. As Eren’s eyes bore into the back of the man in front of him, there is a pain in his teeth; they gnash together in clenched jaws, locking in something that froths at the bottom of his throat, and yet he is standing very still, as he wishes that his eyes had the power to cut.

 “I can’t make it tonight,” he hears himself saying, and Grisha turns to him, face in calm severe folds as usual, as he adjusts his glasses; they flash in the sunlight.

 “And why is that?”

 “I’ve… I’ve got plans with Mikasa and Armin.”

 “You see them every day.”

 “Yes, but this is something – “

 “Cancel it,” his voice cuts through. “This is tradition, and it is not appropriate to abandon tradition. It is your mother’s birthday,” he pauses for emphasis, beholding Eren with disapproval. “As her son you are obliged to commemorate her.”

 “What do you know about commemoration.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “I said, what the fuck do you know about motherfucking commemoration!”

 There is a searing sting on Eren’s cheek and he thinks he has finally succeeded in grinding his teeth to pieces, to a fine white dust; because he truly feels toothless and disarmed in that moment, and he is shrinking into something he was, is, something that is always inside him – cowering.

 “You will not speak to me in that way. Is that clear?”

 Eren nods, toothless.

 ____

   
 It is a fancy restaurant, of course, one of Shiganshina’s finest actually, situated quaintly on the top of an incline, allowing its guests to look down upon the entirety of the city; the poor eastern quarter and the wealthier west; and the sea glimmering blue beyond.

 No other restaurant can boast of a view like this, nor provide their patrons with the satisfying feeling that comes with it; perched above it all, with the world at their feet; a feeling only a select few can afford.

 Eren and his father are seated by the big glass windows. The quiet sun from this morning has been transformed by the afternoon into a fury. It glares at him through the window as it bleeds out on the horizon; it flashes off of his father’s glasses every time he turns his head just so. Eren has barely touched his plate.

 “How are you progressing with the new catalogue?” Grisha is asking.

 “It's slowly coming along. There are a lot of books.”

 A few practical questions and comments concerning the work in the book store follows, and Eren mechanically gives his father the information he wants. The next question is different, though.

 “And Auruo, how is his work?”

 It sounds innocent enough, conversational even, but Eren knows why he's really asking. That is why he doesn't hesitate to say that Auruo is very hardworking guy; he’s exceptionally dedicated and always on time.

 Eren thinks he might have exaggerated a little too much, if the crease between his father's eyebrows is anything to go by. He takes a sip of water and directs his eyes out into the dying sunshine. 

 Auruo really doesn’t deserve this level of praise, but despite everything, Eren likes Auruo. Although he is lazy and annoying – and never, _ever_ washes up or clears away his used coffee cups – Eren still doesn’t want to see him fired. Auruo may be the least efficient employee ever, but he often lets Eren get away with stuff, when he’s late for example, which happens quite often – possibly because he doesn’t care enough – and occasionally he'll let Eren take longer breaks – particularly if he feels guilty about something – and he’ll cover for him if he needs it.

 What Eren likes most about Auruo, though, paradoxically, is his rudeness. The man doesn’t coddle him or treat him differently just because he’s Grisha’s son. Most of the time he’s a pain in the ass, even when he knows that Eren could have him fired if he really wanted to.

 The fact that this has not yet happened serves as a kind of testament to their strange camaraderie as they exist together in a symbiotic relationship there in the bookshop. If Grisha were to hire some uptight, efficient person from the press house instead, Eren does not know how he would cope.

 To be honest, Eren wonders why Grisha hasn't done so already, as it would be the perfect way to keep an eye on him.

 – Because Grisha trusts his son just about as much as he loves him – which is to say, not very much at all.

 Eren is not the son Grisha would have wanted. Early on the publisher realised that his son did not answer to his notions of “correctness”.

 To Grisha, Eren has always been defective, something that needs to be changed and improved – sheared and pruned. Eren’s future was decided for him the day he was born, and as the future heir of Jaeger Press House, certain things are expected of him – the correct behaviour, the correct disposition, the correct preferences, and so on. Eren is not fit to be Grisha’s successor, but the fact remains that he is his sole heir. He will have to do.

 Grisha asks Eren about his studies, asks him about the _Journal_ , and he even asks about Mikasa and Armin – the kinds of questions a parent would ask their child.

 Yet, there is no affection involved, no real concern for his son’s well-being, no real interest in his life or that of his friends; if anything they are no more than routine questions. For every question asked and every question answered, Eren can feel the bile rising steadily in his throat; for each question asked and each question answered, he swallows a glass of water to force the bile down.

 It is a farce, the whole thing – it is merely for show. For Grisha it is crucial to keep up appearances, the appearance of a well-functioning family, to paint the picture of a father and a son solemnly dining together on the occasion of a deceased mother and wife’s birthday – publicly, of course, at a high-end restaurant where the people who matter can witness it.

 They sit in silence for a while. Looking at the sun piercing his glass of water, Eren thinks he can hear its lament; it shines beautifully though, on the white cloth, and he is momentarily transfixed by it. The spell is shattered by Grisha’s voice.

 “Levi Ackerman is seeing a significant rise in popularity after his performance last week.”

 The name has Eren directing his attention back to his father. He doesn’t know what impression he is currently making, doesn’t know what his face looks like.

 Can Grisha tell, by looking at him, that he has seen Ackerman since then? That he has, so to speak, fraternised with the enemy? It feels like it is written all over his face.

 All Eren does is give a non-committal sound as he pretends to be more interested in his food, helping himself to a forkful of red, top quality fish that he can’t taste.

 “Yes, Titan Publishing is doing rather well these days. It appears Ackerman has succeeded in catching the attention of many.”

 Eren does not know what to say. He has already admitted to finding Levi’s work interesting, but he made a promise not involve himself further with Ackerman’s literature, so he does not understand what Grisha wants from him now. He looks up from his plate to measure his father’s countenance.

 As usual he is hard to read. Some people are exceptionally talented when it comes to hiding away their emotions, but Eren sometimes suspects his father of not having any at all.

 However, after a prolonged stare, Eren feels like he can see, can detect an urgency in his father’s look. He diverts his gaze. Grisha can’t be complete apathy, he concludes; after all, Eren knows how strongly he feels about certain things.

 “Do you have an opinion on all of this?”

 Eren reaches for his glass of water; it is empty. The carafe is empty, too. He knows he drank most of it himself, yet his throat is still parched. His hand retreats slowly, grieving the loss of a distraction; he places it in his lap.

 A foreign cold heat leaps through him at the thought of actually telling Grisha his ‘opinion’. He lifts his eyes to the man opposite; hands clasped together in his lap to keep them from shaking, the muscles of his legs and thighs tense for the same reason.

 Staring back into his father’s eyes like that, he feels reckless. And he is suddenly terrified of himself because he feels like he is about to step right off the side of a cliff.

 Grisha studies him, his eyes narrowing; they become dangerous. He doesn’t like the look on his son’s face, his expression turning sour in a silent, gruesome warning of consequences, but Eren’s lips are parting defiantly, his tongue ready to form translated thoughts, when there are the sounds of footsteps approaching, then halting by their table, snapping father and son out of their wordless conflict.

 When Grisha turns to the men, releasing Eren, a wave of nausea washes over the student. A shaking hand comes up to cover his mouth, fingers making sure that his lips are sealed tightly, and he moves his eyes out onto the slaughter on the horizon, blinking away the fuzziness that has appeared on the edges of his vision as he attempts to check his breath.

 “Sir, this man says he is an employee of yours. He insists that it is of great importance that he speaks with you.”

 “Very well. What is it?”

 The voices reach Eren as though from afar, his line of sight focused on the sky that stretches out over the city and the sea beyond. The trembling subsides, and gradually he tunes in on the conversation now taking place between his father and the man who just appeared. His father does not seem pleased.

 “This day is a special occasion. I don’t appreciate being disturbed.”

 “I know, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

 Eren shifts his attention to the suit-clad man standing next to their table. His face is pale, his hands are clasped before him, almost as if in prayer, and Eren can see sweat on his brow as the man seemingly fights for his life. He looks young, he stammers when he speaks, barely daring to meet Grisha’s eyes. The level of nervousness tells Eren that he must be a newbie. How cruel to send someone like him on such a mission. Eren feels sorry for him.

 “I was told to come get you – im-immediately,” he stutters. “They said you would want to be there. It’s about one of our authors, sir, and – ”

 Grisha silences him with a curt gesture. He turns towards Eren, his expression taut.

 “Eren, it seems like I’ll be leaving. I apologise for this.”

 Eren catches the eye of the employee, who hurriedly averts his gaze, like he feels guilty for interrupting their time together. And accurately enough he starts to stammer out apologies, which only makes it more awkward, and Eren just nods and tells him it’s all right, wishing that he could tell him how grateful he is for being released from his captivity earlier than expected. The waiter approaches their table, and Grisha waves him over so that he can settle their bill.

 They both rise from their seats, following in the wake of the perturbed employee who skitters between the tables, making their way toward the exit.

 “I’ll take the tram down,” Eren says quickly when he sees the car waiting for them by the curb. “I’m going in the opposite direction.”

 The sky is an orange glow that is darkening by the minute, and the breeze is fresh, with a hint of salt carried from the sea. All the way down the street the lamps are flickering into life.

 Grisha fixes his eyes on his son; they are unsettling, more so than usual. Eren has not forgotten what transpired mere moments before, and by the look of it Grisha hasn't either.

 “I’ll be in contact, Eren,” and it sounds more like a threat than anything. “Take care.”

 The young man scrambles to open the door for Grisha, before getting behind the wheel. A moment later, the car drives off. Eren immediately starts walking down the pavement, heading for the closest tram stop that he knows lies right around the corner.

 It is cold now that the sun has gone down, so he zips his coat all the way up, and pulls his scarf around his neck tighter, shoving his chin down into it as he makes his way down the street in a brisk manner.

 The sound of his steps echoes off of the buildings on both sides of the narrow street; other than that it is eerily quiet; he can see no one else along the road.

 Turning the corner, he spots the tramline, and he follows it until he reaches the stop. No one is there.

 He only needs to wait a couple of minutes before the tram shows up, curling itself around the corner like a snake, the old cars rattling and squeaking on the rails as it approaches. It slows to a stop, allowing Eren to climb into its stomach, which is completely empty, as if it heaved into the streets mere moments before it reached him – for he can still sense the distinct presence of other people; their smell on the air, the warmth of the seat beneath him, the condensation on the window a trace of breath, of consciousness; and it is a peculiar feeling, somewhat sinister, yet oddly comforting.

 It is only then that Eren relaxes, as they snake their way down the hill towards the city lights below, which glows stronger for each passing minute as dusk quickly unfurls atop them.

 Eren’s eyelids grow heavy as he sinks further into his seat, arms folded across his chest against the chill in the car, wishing he was home already, in his bed, sleeping away the memory of this day, burying it deep beneath sheets and blankets, like he has countless of socks before, never to be found again.

 He doesn’t mean to, but he nods off, only waking, disoriented, to find that he has missed his stop. It’s not a disaster – distances are not very great in Shiganshina. He gets off and walks a slightly longer route home than normal.

 The cold night air effectively wakes him up, so that when his building is finally in sight, he does not feel sleepy any longer. However, sleepy or not, the climb up to their loft is still a cruel ordeal.

 He lets himself into the flat; mechanically he removes his coat and his shoes. As he bends down to untie them, he is surprised by a sudden bout of dizziness that nearly has him tipping over – he is saved by a shoe rack, which he grabs onto to keep himself from collapsing onto the floor.

 “Eren?”

 Armin is calling his name from the kitchen.

 “Yes, I’m here,” he calls back, quickly getting to his feet before they can move into the hallway and see him sitting there on the floor. “Just a minute.”

 He takes a moment to collect himself, to fill his lungs with air that smells like home, letting it soothe and comfort him.

 When he reaches the kitchen he sees them both sitting there by the table, Armin with a book, Mikasa flicking through a magazine. The radio on the counter is on, without it it would have been deadly silent. They have been waiting for him, he knows – they always do this. They look up the moment they hear him enter.

 “Eren. How did it go?” Armin is the first to inquire.

 Mikasa is frowning; she checks the time on her phone.

 “You’re back a little early, aren’t you? Did something happen?”

 Eren feels a smile spread on his face as he looks at them.

 “I got lucky,” he says, “Something came up and Grisha had to leave.”

 He takes a seat next to them, still smiling. He feels so much better now that he is with them. Their looks are worried, but they seem relieved by Eren’s smile.

 His voice is quiet when he says, “I love you guys – did you know that?”

 Armin silently takes hold of his hand and squeezes it as Mikasa lets out a sigh, and says, with a smile of her own, “Of course we know, idiot. We love you, too.”

 The radio crackles on in the background. It's a nice sound, a familiar sound, a madeleine; reviving cherished memories; and they sit for a while enjoying it together.

 Tears are welling up in Eren’s eyes, and he is not aware of it before they spill over, onto his cheeks. Armin’s fingers tighten around his.

 “Eren, I think this is the last year you should spend your mother’s birthday with him. It’s not good for you.”

 Eren is drying his tears, an ironic laugh escaping him.

 “Well, you’re not wrong, but Grisha won’t agree to that, you know.” 

 “Who cares?” Mikasa has her arms folded across her chest and all of a sudden she looks angry. “He can’t force you, Eren! Don’t let him!”

 “If I refused to listen, there would be trouble. You know how fond he is of tradition.” Eren shrugs. “Besides, he leaves me alone most of the time – if this is the price I have to pay for that, then I’m fine with it. It was hard to live with him after mum died, but now I’m free. And as long as I do as he says, he’ll leave me alone.”

 – is what he tells them, but on the inside the words are grating on him, his hand is clasping Armin’s harder than ever, without even realising it.

 “I don’t think you believe that, Eren,” Armin’s voice is soft, eyes softer when he raises his head to meet them. “Everything you do, you do it because you’re afraid of him, don’t you? That’s not right. That’s not freedom.”

 Eren doesn’t know what to say; his heart feels so swollen in his chest, he thinks it might burst.

 “We don’t want to see you like this anymore, Eren,” Mikasa is saying. “You need to start thinking about yourself, about what you want – not what your father wants. This is your life – not his.”

 He looks away from them. He knows that they are right, he knows that they only want what is best for him, knows that they are worried about him, knows that they worry about him all the time – but it’s more complicated than what they think. They don’t understand the whole picture, because he has never told them.

 They know how terrifying Grisha can be – and yet they don’t. He never wants them to.

 Their words hurt more than they should, because Mikasa and Armin cannot feel the chilling, scorching fear that is rooted deep within him; a darkness that encloses; a hopeless pit; a void that threatens – he fears that it will swallow him.

 If he were to go against his father’s will, he fears that he will have to face it. 

 He is terrified by it, and yet – and yet – as it calls to him, he cannot help but wonder – what does it hold?

 That thought, above all, scares him half to death – he fears that he might step right into it.

 “We’ve been over this before,” he mutters, drawing his hand away from Armin’s grip, but Armin won’t let him go; his hand tightens around him.

 “Eren, please. What happened to all that enthusiasm you had earlier?” Armin’s eyes are shining. “You were the one to suggest that we write about _Metaphysics_ in the _Journal._ Don’t you want that anymore?”

 Eren blinks. His heartbeat is speeding up as Armin talks. A piece on _Metaphysics…_ in the _Journal_ – the idea that had consumed him to such a degree up until this day.

 “You even met Ackerman! He agreed to help you! This is a huge opportunity, Eren!”

 Mikasa enters the kitchen; Eren did not even notice her leaving. Her mouth is set in a thin line, her black bangs framing her face dramatically as she approaches them. She throws something onto the table.

 “One little rebellion,” she says, her voice firm, and Eren’s eyes land on the blue, tattered book that she has just thrown, now lying in front of him. He lifts his gaze and she holds it steadily, reassuringly.

 “Rise up, and see what happens. Do it for yourself. You can do it, Eren. You are strong enough. We know you are strong enough.”

 Armin is squeezing his hand again, and Eren shifts his attention to the blonde. His smile is tender.

 “You know it, too, Eren, you just forget it sometimes. But we’ll remind you – as many times as it takes.”

 “It's time” Armin is saying, using his own words against him. “If not now – then when?”  

 A voice echoes inside him:  _I will not let you disarm me._  

 And he cries. He cries but he is strong. It feels like he is about to heave his soul out onto the kitchen table, but it remains. There are arms around him, steadying him, and as they tighten, warmth seeping into his body, they wring more tears from him, telling him it is okay to let it all go, just let it all go...

 “Thank you,” he sobs, unable to find any other words. “Thank you.”

 After some time he can breathe normally again; his chest no longer wrecked with sobs. He can see clearly now; before him lies _Metaphysics_.

 “I’ll contact Ackerman,” he declares, his voice hoarse, but determined – there are teeth in his mouth; he is not toothless. “I’ll appoint a meeting with him. I’ll do this,” he promises.

 Mikasa and Armin are beaming; they squeeze him so tightly that it hurts.

 He reaches for the book on the table, drawing it towards him – behind its front cover lies a note with a sloppily scrawled number that he has already committed to memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya ~ here you have a very emotional chapter that was really hard to write.  
> I was thinking Eren might seem a little ooc, but actually, the way I see it he is being very brave and strong - what he's doing takes a lot of courage. 
> 
> (Also, Mikasa and Armin are the best friends ever.)
> 
> Next chapter will feature a closer look on this Levi Ackerman dude.
> 
> I'd love it if you left me a comment - thank you so much for reading! <3


	5. Delving

 Mikasa pours him his third cup of coffee. She is humming a tune that sounds infuriatingly familiar, and yet Eren can’t seem to recognise it. He gulps down the hot liquid, praying to all the coffee bean gods to remedy the intimidating lack of sleep he had that night, and if they could please bring his brain back to life, as he could really use it in not all too long. Mikasa is still humming.

 “Stop that,” he grumbles at her, earning himself a sharply raised eyebrow and a merciless stare that he quickly attempts to abate by adopting a repentant expression, whining, “Wake me up, Mikasa.”

 She looks at him with a deadpan expression; next she is leaving, coming back a second later with a glass full of –

 Water – it was full of water, _ice-cold water_. Slowly, it trickles down Eren’s face, down his neck, soaking his shirt.

 “Better?” Mikasa asks sweetly.

 Dumbfounded, he nods, mopping his face with his sleeve. “Yes. Thanks.”

 Mikasa leans over to wipe the counter down, also taking the opportunity to flick his forehead. “Good. You need to stay sharp for this, Eren,” she admonishes, adjusting his collar.

 Eren cannot help the glare he sends her; there are droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. He pushes her interfering hands away so that he can fix the collar himself. “You say that, but you just threw a glass of water in my face,” he accuses. “I don’t look very presentable right now.”

Mikasa retreats, looking at him pensively. “Hm, you’re right. I didn’t think that through.”

 Eren sighs, but cannot bring himself to be mad at her; he does feel more awake now than before, but perhaps it’s just the caffeine starting to work its magic. He pulls a hand through his hair, mussing it up to get most of the water out. His shirt is a dark green colour, so it’s not easy to spot the signs of moisture on it. He hopes Ackerman won’t notice.

 There aren’t many people at the café yet; there’s only Mikasa and he, plus an old guy sitting by the window. Eren watches him for a while; the man’s eyes behold the street blindly. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t see, he doesn’t hear, he doesn’t speak; he only is. For a moment Eren feels paralysed by the man’s immobility; he can feel his stomach turn.

 “I’m really glad you’re doing this, Eren.”

He pulls his eyes from the man, fixing them on Mikasa’s smiling face. Her arms are folded over the apron she is wearing. She is looking at him like a proud mother praising her child for making a good decision.

 “Don’t,” he warns her, “You’re embarrassing me.”

 But Mikasa just laughs at his sullen face. Eventually though, she stops laughing, letting out a sigh and putting her hands on her hips. Her countenance smoothens out. “I’m being serious, though, Eren. At first, when Ackerman first appeared, and you and Armin went to that reading, I was a little worried about you. I could tell how excited you were.” She pauses, and for a brief moment her eyes slip away, as her brows furrow slightly. She hesitates before continuing. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if this is a good thing or not, but it think it might be better than just leaving things as they are.” Her eyes return to Eren. “I think this could be a good opportunity for you to figure things out. Just don’t… get too carried away, all right?” She gives him a knowing smile.

 Her words are a little disconcerting, but her smile and the warmth of her voice are reassuring, and Eren decides to push away any nagging feelings that he can feel forming within him. He wants to feel light.

 “Oh, I don’t know if I can promise you that, Mikasa.” He winks at her. “I mean, have you seen Ackerman?”

 Mikasa rolls her eyes. “No, I haven’t. Seems like I’m the only one who hasn’t yet. Is he hot? You think he’s hot, don’t you?” She’s grinning now.

 He shrugs, and takes a sip of his coffee. A smirk is playing on his lips. “Yeah, I can’t deny it. He’s pretty hot.”

 Mikasa’s eyes are full of mirth, but he sees it vanishing slowly and being replaced by something else. She seems hesitant. “In all seriousness though, Eren, be careful, please? Your father–”

 “I know.”

 A second later, seeing the expression on Mikasa’s face, Eren regrets the sharpness of his voice, and he says in a softer tone, “I know, Mikasa. Don’t worry; I can take care of myself.”

 She nods. “Okay.”

 They are quiet for a little while, before Mikasa says, “Anyways, shouldn’t you be going?”

 Checking the time gets him to his feet in an instant, slipping the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and successfully knocking over his empty cup in the process.

 “Crap. Get me a coffee to go, will you?”

 Mikasa’s eyes narrow. “No.”

 “What? Please!”

 “No, you’ve had enough already.”

 “Come on, I’ve only had three.”

 “Yeah, that’s plenty. I know you had at least two before you left home this morning.”

“Mikasa,” he says solemnly. “It will be your responsibility if I keel over and die when I’m meeting with Ackerman. More importantly, it’s going to be really embarrassing if I do.”

 She snorts. “With all that caffeine in your system you’ll keel over and die either way, stupid.” But she pours the black liquid into a paper cup and hands it to him. “There. Now off you go – and good luck!”

 He is already by the door, giving a wave before he slips outside into the light spring air. He imagines a pair of blind eyes following him down the street, and he is glad that he is moving ahead.

 It’s early morning, but the temperature is pleasant, and he has to congratulate himself on his choice of clothing that day, as he decided to forgo his coat in favour of a denim jacket. Summer is right around the corner, he thinks, as the sun squints down at him. It is strange to think that only a month ago the chill of late winter had been sitting in his bones; it seemed then that summer would never come.

 He breathes in the crisp morning air, savouring it, filling his lungs to the brim before letting it slowly trickle out through his mouth. The air tastes best in the morning. The cause of this, Eren fancies, is because the air has yet to be contaminated by the bustle of the city. Just as this thought traverses his mind, he hears the familiar sound of the tram as it curls itself around the corner behind him, catching up, and accompanying him down the street, before it says its goodbyes, and passes by him to slither on to the next street, and the next.

 Eren would have loved to stroll leisurely to the bookstore, but he is running late, so he speeds up, clutching the paper cup in his palm as he strides down the street. The brief feeling of calm from before gradually dissipates with each hurried beat of his heart, with each step that brings him closer to his destination, where he knows Levi Ackerman will be meeting him.

 Eren no longer feels tired or unfocused – he really just feels like throwing up.

 The walk seems to be a lot shorter than usual; before he knows it he is already turning the corner of the park that sprawls at the end of the street where the bookstore is located, and he closes his eyes for a minute as he attempts to check his nerves.

That is when he crashes into a man in a grey overcoat, and there is coffee all over his shirt, and the man in the overcoat is shouting abuse at him, drowning out Eren’s stammering apologies and practically shoving him away before he powers on down the street in a huff. Eren is left standing there in astonishment, blinking. It happened so quickly he’s not sure if it happened at all. However, the empty paper cup on the ground and the coffee staining his shirt, confirm that yes; that really did happen.

 Heartbroken, he stares at the empty container and the splatter of coffee on the asphalt – never has he related more to a spilled drink in his life. Eren picks it up and throws it into the nearest garbage bin, and for a short moment he considers crawling in after it.

 But no – he shakes it off. Ignoring the clamminess of his shirt and the insistent smell of coffee in his nose, he courageously resumes his journey. He is not going to ruin this for himself. It is a miracle, really, that Ackerman has agreed to this interview, so he will not let it go to waste by being a nervous wreck. He would never get this opportunity ever again, so he is determined to make the most of it. And this time he has come prepared; questions have been written down beforehand, agonised over for hours the night before, and made into a list that goes on for at least ten pages, and he is not even sure if he has been able to verbalise half of his questions and thoughts on the book.

 Even with this resolution firmly planted in his mind, he is still nervous. It is not hot, yet sweat is beading on his forehead. He wipes at it with an irritable hand. Get a grip, he tells himself. Ahead lies Opportunity; he rushes towards it, while at the same time, he desperately wants to turn around and spend the day at the coffee shop with Mikasa instead. His heart knows; it attempts to leap out of his chest, to fall floundering on the ground, to successfully sabotage his quest.

 But it doesn’t succeed, and he has already reached the shop front anyway… And so has Ackerman.

 The author is busy checking something on his phone, but looks up when Eren approaches him.

 “You’ve got some nerve being late,” he says before Eren can greet him, slipping his phone into a pocket, and fixing his eyes on the student. Although Eren can remember the intensity of Ackerman’s gaze perfectly well, it is still jarring to receive.

 Looking at him, Eren learns how good the author looks wearing a black leather jacket. Suddenly he feels very self-conscious; his shirt is still wet, sticking to his skin.

 “Ah, I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly, already fishing out the keys for the door. “Time and I don’t get along very well.”

 The sunlight makes the golden letters above the windows shine. Eren finds it difficult to look at the writer, who is squinting at him in the early, slightly antagonistic sun; it has lit the author’s sable hair on fire.

 “In other words, you’re just bad at keeping track of time.”

 Eren laughs nervously. “Something like that, yeah.”

 “Did you spill coffee on yourself?” Ackerman says, pointing to his shirt, the stains on which he hasn’t failed to notice – of course. “You smell like a coffee shop.”

 Eren is laughing again. He gets the door open and gestures for the writer to step inside. “Yes, just now, actually. This guy bumped into me – or I guess I was the one who bumped into him, I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going.”

 The author clicks his tongue. “That’s a habit you have, then.”

 Eren has not forgotten the circumstances around their first meeting, and neither has the writer, apparently.

 “Um, yeah. Sorry about that.”

 A dark, heavy silence rules in the store. It’s as if they have delved into a deep-sea cave, and entered an entirely different world from the one outside, or above, where dust motes float through the air like plankton that parts slovenly for the pair as they intrude upon the scene.

 The feeling of being watched, judged, announces itself immediately in Eren. It is somehow stronger than before, more acute. Eren thinks it must be because of the person accompanying him – it’s almost as if he is bringing an enemy into home territory. He is so caught up in the feeling that he nearly walks straight into a table stacked full of books. He takes a deep breath to steady himself.

  _Don’t let it get to you._

 “You’re nervous,” the author observes.

 When Eren looks at him he is met with a quiet, curious expression.

 It’s more complicated than that, though.

 Ackerman’s gaze leaves him to survey the room instead, as if searching for something, his sharp eyes narrow as if he’s trying to filter the perceptions. Eren wants to ask him if he can feel it, too, the oppressiveness of the place, or if it is only he - if it is always only he.

 “Sorry about that,” he murmurs.

 Ackerman’s eyes are back on his. “You were more confident the other day.”

 "You think so? Probably because I’d had something to drink.”

 Ackerman is smiling. “Probably.”

 Silence descends upon them, but then Ackerman asks with interest, “How long have you been working here?”

 “Hm, since I was thirteen, I think? Around that age. Grisha was intent on it.”

 “I’m sure he was.”

 The author’s gaze is scanning the shelves once more, where the books are lined up in neat rows, announcing their titles and their makers in gold and silver letters. His expression is one of quiet distaste. Eren doesn’t like it when those sharp eyes burrow so intently there, again the wringing of a nerve – it throbs. Inexplicably, Eren feels ashamed. 

 He is already regretting bringing Ackerman there, still he leads the way through the cave, to the desk that serves as his fort against customers, customers that don’t always exist, but still.

 Eren offers Ackerman the chair in front of it. The author throws another look around him. “Won’t you have any customers, though?”

 Eren shakes his head. “Not this early.” He gestures to his soiled shirt and says, “I’m just going to go change real quick. Please have a seat."

 He slips into the back where he is half certain he left a spare shirt once. It is only a narrow closet tucked in beneath the stairs, and half of it is filled with an avalanche of books that he shudders to think of cataloguing.

 He finds the shirt, and leaves his coffee stained one in a crumple on the floor.

 When he returns, Ackerman is standing with his back to him, facing a shelf. Eren thinks the author hasn’t noticed him, but then he turns around. The glasses that Eren saw him wearing at the reading a few weeks before, are resting on the thin bridge of his nose. A book lies open in his hand – an old classic, the only kind to be found in the store - the slightly yellowed edges of the paper whisper as he turns the page.

“Do you like working here?” he asks then, his fringe falling down into his eyes as he peers at the young student over the rim of his glasses.

 Eren tries to smile. The shirt he has donned is a little short and he tugs at the hem. “It’s okay, I guess. It’s familiar and it pays well.” He shrugs. “It’s only part time, anyway.”

 “Hm,” is all the author says, before he closes the book abruptly and puts it back on the shelf. He removes the glasses and slips them away into his breast pocket.

 “Well then,” he seats himself in the chair facing the desk, crossing on leg over the other. The leather jacket he has hung over the armrest. He aims a slight smile at the student, well meaning enough, but his eyes are indeterminable. “Fire away, Eren.” 

 Eren retrieves his notebook from his bag, along with his favourite pen, feeling the author’s eyes on him all the while, and he notices that his hands are shaking again. Eren curses himself inwardly, as he takes the seat opposite Ackerman, the desk between them like a barrier.

 “Thank you so much for this,” he begins, making room for his notebook on the desktop. He looks up at Ackerman. “We really appreciate it. I mean,” he pauses. “I appreciate it, as well. I truly… enjoy _Metaphysics_.”

 His words sound so feeble, so destitute. It is hard to speak in front of someone like Ackerman. But the author acknowledges him with a nod, seemingly accepting his language. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

 Eren doesn’t know how to reply. He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, and so he is seeking refuge on the page before him, riddled with words that he can’t read, as it is written in a tongue he spoke the night before – today it seems foreign. All those hours of preparation wasted.

 “I don’t really know where to start,” he admits shamefaced, eyes searching Ackerman for help, hoping that he will take pity on him.

 The author uncrosses and crosses his legs, and leans further back in his chair. It’s an uncomfortable chair, Eren knows, Auruo and he always bicker over who has to use it, but Ackerman does not give any sign of being uncomfortable; the way he is seated in it, the chair might as well be a throne.

 “Let’s just talk,” Ackerman says, leaning his elbow on the armrest, so that he can prop his head up in his hand. “Don’t think about it too much, let’s just talk.”

 It sounds a whole lot better. Eren can feel himself starting to relax.

 He nods, and smiles. “Yeah, that sound’s good, actually.”

 Eren reaches into his bag to get his copy of _Metaphysics_. When he feels it in his hands his breathing evens out. He places it on the desk, and looks up at the man who wrote it. He glances down at the title once more.

 “It’s a very unusual book,” he begins in a low voice, more to himself than anything. “I can’t exactly define it. I’ve tried to, but I fall short every time.”

 The author is quiet, so Eren continues; words are eager on his tongue now. “The way I see it, it can’t be defined by the traditional distinctions of genre.”

 Eren is reminded of his father’s review and feels a spark of anger. “It’s true that it’s not a novel, not really. It’s way beyond that.”

 “Then what is it?”

 “I think it a fragment of some sort,” Eren says it hesitantly, gauging the author’s reaction.

 “A fragment, huh?” Ackerman looks amused. “That would imply it is only a small part of something bigger.”

 Eren is nodding, heart starting to beat a little faster. “Yes,” he reaches for the book and puts it in his lap. “It’s a fragment of your mind.”

 “A fragment of my mind,” the writer echoes, tasting the words on his tongue.

 The room falls quiet as Eren wonders how to proceed, wonders how to explain to Ackerman that when he reads _Metaphysics_ , he can feel him on his fingertips – Ackerman’s presence. The author is there, soaking through the pages; he is there, sweating through the ink on the paper, so that when he turns the page his fingers come off sticky…

 “When I read it I can feel your presence,” is what he says. “It’s almost physical.”

 Ackerman’s eyes glint. “Metaphysical, you mean.”

 The comment tugs at the corner of Eren’s mouth, and he lets out a short laugh. “Ah yes, you’re right – it’s metaphysical.”

 Ackerman is smiling, head tilting near imperceptibly as he beholds the student. Eren is not unaffected by this. Now he doesn’t know how to continue.

 “I’m glad to hear that,” comes Ackerman’s voice, filling the gap. “Although I strive to make my writing as authentic as possible, I didn’t know it would resonate to such a degree within a reader.” He pauses, looking as if he’s weighing a continuation on his tongue. “Let alone someone by the name of Jaeger.”

 There it is, the constant reminder of Eren’s signifier.

 However, Ackerman’s attitude towards it has changed; he doesn’t use it in a hostile, accusing manner as before; it is teasing, yes, but laced with something – intrigue, Eren thinks. Like the author is now examining the word, the name, that presumably constitutes him; examining it with eyes that pierce, eyes that can tear, and Eren does not know if it is a good thing. What he knows is that it makes his skin prickle and his body thrum, like there is an electric current running through him, and it might be lethal.

 “I’m not… fond of the literature Grisha publishes. It does nothing for me,” Eren confesses, sitting up in his chair. His voice gains strength. “Yours is different. It was a breath of fresh air to me – and I know others have felt it, too.” He gives the author a wry smile. “As you said, it’s hard to breathe here.”

 Ackerman hums in approval. “Tell me more, Eren.”          

 The student swallows, supresses a shudder. “Those who don’t like it don’t understand it.” His hands ball up into fists, and he anchors his gaze in the author before him as he speaks. The expression on Ackerman’s face turns solemn as he listens to the green-eyed boy. “They hate it because they don’t understand it, because they can’t define it, because it doesn’t fall comfortably into the structure of understanding that they have built for themselves. It falls on the outside of that system, so the easiest thing for them is simply to dismiss it.”

 Ackerman is still wearing that expression, so Eren decides to continue. He can feel the flame within him flaring up now as he speaks, and as he looks at the man in front of him; its source. “Yeah, it’s chaotic, it’s vulgar, it’s a patchwork, it’s hard to understand at times,” he recalls the words used in his father’s review, hears the echo of his disapproving voice within his head as he speaks them, but the words are not coated with disapproval when they leave _his_ mouth; his voice carries the heat from his insides instead, and in his tongue they become something else entirely. He holds the book up. “It’s all those things! And that is what makes it brilliant.” Eren puts it down on the desk between the two of them. His voice is shaking. “The only fault of this book is that it is not compliant with tradition.”

 Ackerman regards him silently for a minute. Then he reaches for the book.

 It is something special when he touches it, Eren’s copy, sliding it across the wood to capture it in his hands. His fringe shifts slightly with the breath of the pages as he thumbs through them. He puts the book back on the table. Leaning back in his chair, he sends Eren a glance that is hard to decipher.

 “Eren Jaeger,” he says slowly. “You are a very interesting person.”

 Eren does not know how to reply to that.

 The sunlight is creeping across the floor, attempting to reach the furthest, darkest corners of the store; it never succeeds; the furthest corners here have never been touched by sunlight during the two centuries the building has existed. It reaches for the spot where they sit, but it can’t; Eren has watched it try many times. No matter how hard it tries, it can never reach him.

 “I – I’m sorry. I’ve just been talking all this time.”

 “I asked you to.”

 “Yeah, I guess. But I think I should ask you some questions now.”

 Ackerman nods, an amused smile ghosting his lips as he gives his permission. “Go ahead.”

 Eren takes a deep breath. After talking so freely and heatedly he feels like his mind has woken up and that he knows what he wants to ask next. The notebook in front of him he has completely forgotten.

 “We spoke about this before, your narrative – how it falls apart at times, how it crumbles, if you will. Suddenly it’s like it’s written in a whole new language, and yet, I recognise it. I think I shouldn’t be able to understand what it says, because at first it seems unintelligible, but then after reading it carefully I feel like I get it; those words reach me like nothing else does.” Eren pauses, averting his eyes from Ackerman’s; it’s too much at that moment. Eren’s fingers are itching. “I don’t understand how it works,” he is saying, eyes fixed on the cover of the blue book. He scratches his arm. “Why – when – have you always been writing like that?” Eren dares to move his eyes back to Ackerman.

 Ackerman shakes his head. “No, I haven’t. I changed – so naturally my language changed – I am language, you are language.”

 Eren blinks, and then remembers that he is supposed to be writing this down. He reaches for his pen and his notebook and scribbles the gist of it down. He looks up. “What happened?” he asks. “Why did you change?”

 The author’s brows settle in a frown. “I wasn’t happy with my writing. I didn’t like it. And I realised it was because I was conforming to the conventional values of literature, and I came to despise it – canon. I was writing from within canon, but I could not find my voice there. I had to step outside.” His frown smoothens out, and a triumphant smile graces his lips. “That’s where I found it.”

 His eyes are glittering impishly as he continues. “The glory if it is that they can’t touch me here. You saw what they tried to pull at The House of Literature? They tried to affiliate me – haul me back in.” He brushes away the black strands that have fallen into his eyes; they fall back immediately. His voice is urgent. “Like you said, they don’t know how to handle me while I’m on the outside, that’s why they tried to affiliate me. But you see, Eren, when you let yourself be affiliated, you lose your voice, your identity. But if you’re on the outside you can take them on – you can fight them on your own terms, not theirs, with your own weapons.”

 There is the feverish shine, the hint of madness, in the author’s eyes, of violence – the promise of mobilisation. It is terrifying.

 Eren does not write anything down. He feels like he’s hypnotised.

 “So it’s for real then?” he asks, nearly breathless. “You’re going to fight them?”

 Eren is not sure what kind of expression he is wearing, but it looks like Ackerman is taking pleasure in it; he leans in across the desk as if he is about to divulge a secret, and Eren’s breath catches in his throat.

 “You want me to, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice full, while grey eyes dart around Eren’s face, taking in every feature, the twitch of a muscle, the flicker of his eye.

 Eren’s mouth falls open, bravely attempting to form some sort of reply. “I – “

 The bell by the door rings, announcing the first customer of the day.

 Ackerman’s gaze lingers, a smirk adorning his lips as he slowly retreats back into his seat.

 Eren gets up, springs beneath his feet, to see an elderly lady making her way through the store. “Welcome!” he calls out to her, but she doesn’t hear him – that, or he is simply being ignored. Eren doesn’t know why he is suddenly greeting customers; he never bothers to – no, scratch that, he knows exactly why.

 Ackerman, he realises, is watching him like he is some sort of spectacle, lounging in his chair, head resting in his hand. Eren hates how flustered the man is making him, and he positively glares at him in return, this only seems to amuse the author further. A moment later, the lady is shuffling out of the door, and the shop remains quiet for a minute. Ackerman checks the time.

 “I need to be going in a minute. I have a meeting with Erwin.” He looks back up at the student, whose cheeks are painted with a light blush. “Why don’t you show me around this place before I leave?”

 Eren regains his composure and sends the man a sceptical look. “Really? There’s nothing much to see.”

 Ackerman shrugs and gets to his feet. “It’s an old building. Old buildings interest me.”

 Reluctantly Eren agrees, supressing the uneasiness that sits in his stomach as he guides the author through the store. While they were sitting there talking, he had been able to ignore it for the most part, but now he is struggling. His shoulders tense up; he is acutely aware of everything around him; the mahogany shelves, the smell of the wood, the glaring dark beneath the furniture; Ackerman walking next to him; the smell of his cologne.

 “What about upstairs?” comes Ackerman’s voice from beside him, low and comfortable; soothing. Eren realises that Ackerman has never raised his voice in the store since that first time when Eren told him not to. Eren doesn’t look at him, only leading the way over to the staircase in silence.

 “You’re a terrible guide,” Ackerman comments as they climb the stairs.

 Eren sighs. “What do you want me to say? I don’t know the history of the place that well. It’s old as balls, it was built by a Jaeger, owned by Jaegers, it is still owned by a Jaeger, Jaegers have always been working here – a Jaeger is still working here – the books are old as balls, too, and there are at least a hundred thousand of them here and I need to catalogue them all, as Auruo is probably going sneak his way out of it, and I’ve only just started and there’s just a fucking fuckton of books.”

 They reach the top of the stairs and Eren thinks he can hear Ackerman chuckle behind him. He doesn’t turn to look, although tempted to.

 Eren has forgotten to turn on the lights on the second floor; the high windows placed in intervals between the tall bookshelves are the only source of light in the room. The plankton thrives up here, too. 

 Eren halts by the stairs, still hesitating to let Ackerman delve deeper into this world, but Ackerman passes him by, steps further into the room, disappears behind a bookshelf. Eren doesn’t want to follow, but he does, gliding over the floor in the murkiness to see the author standing in a spillage of light as he surveys the contents of the shelf before him. The sight nearly takes Eren’s breath away. Ackerman reaches out a pale hand to gently touch the spines on the shelf.

 The picture could have been serene if it had not been for the sneer on the man’s face, the unmistakable contempt in his eyes that said, if he could, he would light the books on fire.

 “Most of this is rubbish,” he says, mostly to himself. “It’s all the same. All of it.” He turns to Eren. “I must congratulate your family for being able to make such a fine collection of the most boring literature in our history.”

 Eren watches him, tongue-tied, not offended, yet unwilling to step into the light.

 In the silence that follows Eren is holding his breath. He waits for the repercussion; Ackerman’s mockery would surely not pass unpunished in this place. Unaware, he starts worrying at his lip.

 “Eren?”

 “Yes?”

 He feels the atmosphere of the room turn, it grows, looms more than before; and he feels tiny.

 Ackerman steps out of the light and back into Eren’s gloaming. The author looks beautiful here, too; features in shadow, dark brows darker, black hair like coal.

 “Are you feeling all right?”

 Eren looks at the author, Ackerman looks back; eyes too sharp.

 Eren feels nauseous.

 “Yes. I feel fine.” Eren takes a step away from him, scratching at his neck. “You should get going, shouldn’t you?”

 Ackerman needs to leave. He can’t bear it anymore.

 But Ackerman doesn’t move. He peers at him through the half-light, wearing a slight frown, like he is trying to work out a problem.

 Eren takes a step towards the stairs. “Thank you for your time, Ackerman. I think I’ve been able to gain better insight into your work now.”

 The author arches an eyebrow. “I told you to call me Levi, didn’t I?” The man steps closer again, his eyes are somewhat hooded. “Please, do call me Levi.”

 Eren’s mouth feels singularly dry. “Levi,” he mutters, and for some reason he feels like he shouldn’t – at least not here.

 The author looks pleased; he steps away from the student, and Eren does not know how he feels about that.

 He leads the way back down where it is considerably lighter, but the burrowing in Eren’s stomach still remains.

 “I feel bad about this short interview. We didn’t get to discuss much did we?” Ackerman is saying as he puts on his jacket. His gaze slips to the notebook lying open on the desk, where only a few lines are jotted down.

 To Eren’s surprise, Ackerman suggests that they have another meeting, tells him that he’ll give him a call so that they can find a day where none of them are busy. Eren can only comply; a little amazed that Ackerman seems to be so eager about this.

 He follows Ackerman to the door. They shake hands; Ackerman’s skin is cold.

 The author gives him a smile, tilting his head a little. “I have enjoyed talking with you, Eren.”

 “Me too… Levi.”

 Eren has the privilege of watching the writer’s smile broaden; something moves in his eyes as it does.

 When Levi is gone, Eren is left alone in the store. Occasionally a customer will enter, occasionally they will buy a book; none of them seem to notice how the building is contracting, wringing itself in a frenzy to punish the ugly, filthy traitor it has trapped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I did not think it would take me such a long time to finish this chapter. But I'm glad I was able to get it finished before I go on vacation in a few days!
> 
> This chapter is a bit longer than the others, it kinda just had to be that way.  
> I'm slowly trying to present 'Metaphysics' because doing it all in one go is just not doable. I really hope you're still enjoying this, were starting to get into the thick of things now. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading - and feedback is, of course, very much appreciated.


	6. In transit

 One afternoon Eren finds himself swallowed once more by the metal-clad snake that tirelessly traverses the city. As he lets it take him through the streets, contemplating the icy rain on the window, and how, really, he was mistaken when he thought summer was pending, he wonders if he has the strength to arrive.

 It is nothing new, this feeling. It is something he experiences often. That is why Eren doesn’t question it; like it is something completely natural, like the feeling of hunger or say, fatigue – or any other bodily sensation. Still, Eren doesn’t think the sensation has anything to do with the bodily at all, not really.

 It is a metaphysical being, a catlike creature that curls itself around his shoulders; it lives in trams, in trains, on the tube, in all public and private modes of transportation. It won’t always pay him any attention, but more often than not it will come to him. It is warm, but heavy, so heavy that he cannot move. Strangely enough, though, Eren doesn’t mind it; it is warm, it is snug, and it probably means him no harm. What it wants, he thinks, is a companion in transit.

 It is made up of comfortable pleasant apathy, and, somehow its essence saturates his skin, enters his bloodstream so that it pumps sluggishly through his veins – warm, liquid apathy.

 Sitting there, he thinks that he would be content to keep going, to continue, perhaps for eternity. To exist in a state in limbo, where he’s in no designated place yet many places at once; where he exists, but sort of on hold.

 So he sits, moving forward, immobilised.

 It takes an immense amount of willpower, a jerk or a convulsion of his being, more like a mental and physical uprooting than anything, to get up, and to get off where he’s supposed to. It is a violent action, and when he steps off he feels foreign and displaced, and inexplicably exhausted.

 Mikasa is enjoying the late afternoon lull when he walks into the café, clearing away cups and plates while she hums along to the soft jazz music. Seeing him entering, she smiles and moves swiftly over to the counter where she immediately starts making him a steaming hot cup of coffee, which is placed before him a few minutes later.

 “How was class?”

 “It was all right.”

 “Do you want anything to eat?”

 Eren shakes his head and takes off his jacket. “No thanks.”

 Mikasa is collecting stray trays and putting them together in a tall pile.

 “So he’s coming here, is he?”

 “What?”

 “I’m glad. I want to see him. I’m the only one who hasn’t yet.”

 The tower grows before her. She pushes her bangs behind her ears, looks at Eren. “How’s the piece coming along?”

 Although he has met the author twice now, Eren hasn’t divulged much about their meetings to Mikasa nor Armin. It is easy to see, by the look on Mikasa’s face, that there is much she wants to know, but she is refraining from tacking on any more questions. Eren knows that both she and Armin are curious, and eager, and, most of all, concerned, but it’s hard to relay what Ackerman and he actually talk about. Yes, they talk about _Metaphysics;_ they talk about literature and writing, but it all seems so abstract, allegorical even.

 It has become harder for him to do his job at the bookstore these days. Plunging in between the rows of books, he is a deep-sea diver, and the pressure steadily increases as he delves deeper. Stepping out for the day is like resurfacing, and he feels dizzy, like he’s got the bends, and when it passes he feels restless, hungry; a restless hunger.

 He has asked for some time off work, claiming that he needs to focus on his studies. Grisha wasn’t particularly happy about that, but eventually he had relented, seeing as his son’s grades are no less important to him than the work he does at the bookstore.

 “I don’t know. I’m still gathering material, I guess,” he says in reply to Mikasa’s question.

 Mikasa is biting her lip. “But… do you feel like you’re getting anywhere?”

 “Maybe?” he smiles. “It’s fun talking to him, though. It doesn’t get boring.”

 Mikasa nods, returning his smile. “Okay, good.”

 "I’m presenting what I have so far tomorrow – to the rest of the team."

 Eren takes the first sip of his coffee; it is still scalding.

 Mikasa leans her elbow on the counter, placing her chin in her hand. She looks a little tired; it must have been a hectic day, probably due to the cold weather. “Cool. What do you think they’ll say?”

 “I honestly don’t know.”

 Mikasa’s gaze roams the quiet shop, her eyes a little distant. “Well, at least Armin’s got your back. I’m sure you’ve got something that’ll convince them.” She sends him a smile and straightens up. “I’ve got some stuff I need to take care of out back while it’s quiet here. Let me know if there’s any customers,” she walks towards the back door, calling behind her, “– and especially when you-know-who arrives, got it?” She slips away and Eren is left by himself.

 There are a few other customers in the shop, too, but the only one that draws Eren’s attention is the old man sitting in his usual spot by the window. On the table in front of him is a cup full of black liquid; there is no steam issuing from it. Eren imagines the man having been seated there since the very beginning of time itself, like the coffee shop was merely built up around him one day, and suddenly he found himself seated by its windows, staring out, blindly, on a landscape that has changed drastically over the years gone by; possibly he can sense it, but he cannot see. He stares, trying to construct an image of the past.

 Eren stops looking. Instead he pulls out a book from his bag – a book he should have finished a long time ago. He eyes the cover sullenly.

 He checks the time. He’s early; Levi won’t be there for a little while yet.

 With a groan he resigns himself to his fate, pulling the book to him, and opening it on the page where he left off. He finds that he can’t remember much of it, and he has to go back several pages. Gritting his teeth, he starts reading.

 Linguistics – Eren’s least favourite subject. And if the subject matter isn’t enough, this particular theoretician is exceptionally dull. To make it worse, he has also gone out of his way to construct the most convoluted and complex sentence structures Eren has ever encountered. It is a constant struggle trying to wring meaning from the text; his eyes dig down into it, aggressively, as if a threatening mien will somehow help him wrestle from it any semblance of meaning. He is baffled by the author's ability to form such complex constructions of phrases and clauses, and thoroughly annoyed by the extra effort it takes him to decode whatever the author is trying to tell him. You’d think a linguist, or a theoretician of any kind, really, would be an advocate of understanding – apparently not. Not in academia.

 “It looks like you’re in pain,” comes a voice from beside him.

 Looking up, he sees Levi taking a seat next to him.

 “Levi! Hi!”

 Eren brightens up considerably when the man appears before him, like a godsend the author delivers him from the excruciating book before him, which he closes immediately.

 “Eren,” he says, his voice warmed by the obvious enthusiasm of the brunet.

 “Thank god you came – a minute longer and my brain would have exploded.”

 The author nods to the book. “What is it?”

 Eren pushes it towards him with a shudder. “It’s torture, that’s what it is.”

 Levi turns it over, looks at the title and the author. “My condolences.”

 Eren lets out a groan as he reaches for the book and shoves it deep into his bag, where he hopes he will never find it again.

 “Did you ever have to read stuff like this?” Eren asks, pained expression fading as he turns his attention on the writer.

 Levi shakes his head, adopting something of a smug look as he says, “No; never had to. I never went to uni.”

 Eren’s eyes widen. “Really? Never? Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he hastens to add. “It’s just that I assumed you had, since you seem so educated about literature and canon and stuff.”

 “I am educated in it,” the writer says softly, evidently enjoying the sight of the struggling student, “just not academically.”

 Eren nods, a little embarrassed. “So you taught yourself, is what you’re saying?”

 “Yes and no. If anything, it was life that taught me.”

 “How?”

 Eren brings out his notebook, determined to write this down, feeling like they are moving onto something important. This is when Mikasa appears.

 The moment she lays her eyes on the writer sitting there next to Eren, her smile fades a little. Her person becomes wary as she takes in the strange man that hasn’t seen her approaching yet.

 “Ah, Mikasa,” Eren says when he becomes aware of her, “This is Levi Ackerman.”

 The author removes his eyes from the student, relocating briefly to the tall girl behind the counter.

 It is something of a sight to behold the way Levi’s expression changes with the entrance of a new character – his face, open and playful mere moments before, is suddenly several degrees colder.  

 It isn’t that Eren has forgotten, exactly, the hostile behaviour the author showed when they first met; he still shows signs of it, especially when Eren asks a question he shouldn’t have. Right now, seeing his countenance transform in such a way, makes Eren realise just how much the author must have warmed up to him. It takes him off-guard, and he does not appreciate the menacing look Levi is giving Mikasa.

 Mikasa, however is unfazed, and she meets his stare head-on.

 “Levi, this is my friend and my flatmate Mikasa.”

 “Hello,” he nods. “Pleasure to meet you.”

 Mikasa’s neck is stiff. “You too. Do you want anything? To eat or drink?”

 Eren sees her putting on a smile, but it is not honest.

 "I’d love a cup of coffee,” is Levi’s reply, and he returns her smile in a similar fashion.

 She pours him a cup and puts it down in front of him without a word.

 “Okay then,” she shifts her gaze over to Eren, looking as if she already has forgotten about Levi, but the strict line of her mouth suggests otherwise. “I’ve still got stuff to do in the back. Tell me when there’s customers, okay?”

 Eren just nods silently, sending her a look that he’s not sure if she catches, and then she is gone. The awkward moment remains unaddressed by either of them.

 “Flatmate, huh?”

 “Yeah, it’s Mikasa, Armin, and I. I don’t know if you remember him? He was the one with me at the reading.”

 “Ah, yes, the short blonde one.”

 "That’s right. We both study literature. Mikasa works here, for the time being. The three of us have been living together for the past three years now.” Eren smiles. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. They’re the best.”

 Levi just nods, obviously not all too interested in Eren’s friends.

 “So, no girlfriend, boyfriend?”

 Eren lets out an awkward laugh. “Uhm, no.”

  _Stop it,_ he thinks, supressing the disgusting tension in his stomach, _stop it,_ and he has to look away from the writer. He clears his throat, tries to steer the conversation back on track. “So, could you tell me some more about how you learnt about literature? Where? When?”

 The author seems to be hesitating. Eren imagines that, for a moment, there is tension in Levi’s jaw, while he considers answering the student, but it vanishes and leaves no trace behind – or no, Eren hears it in the man’s words instead, in the gaps in between them.

 “I travelled for a long time when I was a teenager. I learnt a lot about myself and the world that way, which obviously had an impact on my writing,” is what he says. It sounds like it is something he has rehearsed, and, in fact, it sounds strangely familiar. Yes, Eren thinks he might have read it in an interview somewhere before.

 Eren is not aware of it, but he is worrying at his lower lip. “Could you elaborate?”

 Levi remains silent, and Eren notices then how little noise there is in the small café. The silence forces him to remove his eyes from the notebook that has become his regular sanctuary. There is a jab of apprehension when he takes in the look in Levi’s eyes.

 “What exactly are you writing, Eren?” His voice is very calm. “My biography?”

 The author’s expression takes Eren aback, and the confidence that he has gained wavers as he stammers, “Er… no. I’m sorry, it’s just that I thought it might help people understand why you write the way you write.”

 Levi scoffs. “There’s a difference between my life and my writing. Don’t confuse the two.”

 The condescending tone annoys Eren. “I know that, but don’t tell me there isn’t a link between the two either, however small.”

 The author’s eyebrows descend in a deadpan expression, but he remains silent as he considers Eren. He relaxes, but crosses his arms over his chest as he bores his eyes into the brunet. “Okay. Fine. There is a connection between the two, but only to a certain extent. I don’t think it is necessary to understand the author to be able to understand their writing.”

 Eren nods, “of course,” and waits for him to continue.

 The author changes again; warms up; drips onto the counter. He leans in towards the student.

 “If you so badly want me to tell you about my past, you need to earn it.”

 There is a teasing curve on his lips.

 Eren swallows, his fingers curl around his pen, gripping it tighter. “How?”

 Levi’s lips part, eyes glinting with mischief as he savours the charged silence, before saying, "You need to tell me something about yourself first."

 "Um, there's not a lot to tell. Besides, I'm the one who's supposed to be interviewing you."

 Levi shrugs. "Guess I won't be telling you anything, then."

 He takes a sip of his coffee, puts it down in an abrupt motion; signifying the period of a sentence, and the opportunity is lost. "Let's talk about _Metaphysics_ then, shall we?"

 Eren swallows, shifts his gaze to his notes, nods.

 It's ludicrous to feel disappointed. He tells himself that he isn't. "Yes. Well. I've been wanting to ask you, whether you have a philosophy, if you will, or a kind of theory that you follow when you write? Many authors do."

 Levi takes a moment before answering. He turns his cup around 180 degrees, before he turns it back again. He doesn’t look at Eren when he says, "My approach is my hate for language.” His eyes have hardened; his voice has solidified, and there is no trace of humour in his expression. "I'm constantly battling it,” he goes on, “and the only way I can do that is to tear it apart, to fray it; rearrange it; confuse it before it can confuse me." When he finally meets Eren's stare, a sardonic smile is gracing his lips.

 Eren blinks, writes something down, but he knows he won’t be able to read it later. It doesn’t matter though; the words are reverberating inside his head. "That hate... is why you write?" he asks.

 Levi nods. "If I stop I lose." He is still smiling. "I can never win, though, no matter what I try. In the end, language always wins."

 Eren thinks that, with that statement, the author should look defeated, but he doesn’t. "Writing is like fighting to you," he extrapolates.

 "Writing, fighting, living - they're all the same to me."

 He is a little afraid of looking at Levi just then, feels like he would be intruding if he did, but he can’t help it and he looks; he finds the author the same as always; pale, uninspired; tired. Eren has forgotten about his coffee; it is cold when he brings it to his lips. Eventually he says, "It sounds tiring."

 The author hums and turns to meet his gaze, and Eren feels relieved when he sees the grey of his eyes, a grey that is alive; moving; carrying; mobile.

 "It's a way of life, like any other," Levi says. "The thing is, when you exist in constant uneasiness you have to fight it, push back, don't settle. Could you stand to live in constant uneasiness?"

 Eren is taking notes, eyes hidden from searching steel ones.

 "I wonder," is what he says.

 ______

 

 Eventually he manages to convince the rest of the editorial team – Armin's support is undoubtedly a deciding factor here. However, after presenting the material he has gathered so far, he sees some of them light up - namely Sasha and Connie, and a few others. Jean, on the other hand, isn't overjoyed, saying something along the lines of "isn't this all just so that you can bone him", causing the others to snicker and heat to bloom in Eren's face.

 "Shut up, Jean,” and he can’t help the aggressive tone. “I'm being serious about this, and I would appreciate it if you were, too."

 Armin throws him a look, and supresses a smile. "That's right, Jean. It's very important that we take this piece seriously – we all know what’s at stake."

 With that, the mood suddenly turns serious, and although Jean is wearing a sour expression he doesn't object. 

 "Okay, so, what exactly are you planning on writing?" Connie asks, scratching his head. 

 "I'm going to focus on his style and his method, I think. Feel free to come with any suggestions."

 "I don't know man, I think _Metaphysics_ is real hard. I mean, I like it, but I can’t say exactly why.”

 Eren smiles. "There are parts in there that I can't make much of either, to be honest. Still, I appreciate them."

 "So what is his method?" Jean says.

 Eren takes out his notes and leans back in his chair, unable to stop the smile from growing on his lips. "He hates writing. He hates language. He hates literature."

 The whole team is quiet. Armin clears his throat but doesn't say anything. Jean lifts an eyebrow into an incredulous arch. "You're kidding me, aren't you?"

 Eren shakes his head, still smiling. "Nope, dead serious."

 "Well, whatever works for him, I guess," Sasha says.

 They look convinced, even Jean is wearing an intrigued expression, and Eren has to congratulate himself inwardly. Yet, although he is happy, there is a thin steel wire wrapped around the feeling, and it makes him wonder, as Jean snatches his notes and complains about them being “unreadable”, if he really should be happy at all.

______

 A few good days follow, where he is, surprisingly, able to do some reading and go to lectures, as he should. However, Eren doesn’t feel inspired anymore, and it makes him uncomfortable. He remembers his first years at the University, where he had been, granted, not _overly_ enthusiastic, but at least more invested in his studies. That was before _Metaphysics._ Now things are different.

 He looks upon the University differently now, through different eyes, and he feels like the University looks back, as if it can detect the change in him. Its professors scowl at him during lectures, its employees stare at him for too long when he passes them in the hallway. Eren knows that it’s partly his own imagination, but he knows, too, that partly, it is not; there exists a formidable presence that breathes in the corridors, in the library, in the lecture halls, in the cafeteria, in the break rooms; and its omniscience is suffocating.

 Then comes one of those days where everything is a little too much; Things are too much; people are too much; Language is too much; and the only place he can go is where there is Emptiness.

 He stays at his mother’s grave for a long time; until the spring grass turns orange and the shadows lounging there reach out towards something he can’t see. It is getting cold, but he has not brought a jacket.

 Someone walks by him on the path to his right, but he barely registers it. There is not much in his mind just then; it is soaking in the Emptiness while it is simultaneously trying to penetrate it; to get behind it; to see it from the other side.

 “Eren? Is that you?”

 Syrupy, his mind slips from the Emptiness.

 A man is standing on the path beside him. Eren knows the man. He brushes a hand over his face, squinting against the dying sunlight, struggling to make the person into an image he can recognise.

 “Levi,” he says, when he has assembled him.

 The writer stands very still on the gravel, turned halfway towards Eren, and it is hard to make out his face because of the glaring sun. Eren takes a step away from the cold stone, towards Levi. His mind is shaking off the last drops of molasses; he can see Levi’s face better now, as a tree has moved into the picture to block the sun. “Levi,” he repeats, blinking, “what are you doing here?”

 Levi’s eyes rest on him for a short eternity, while the last rays of light barrages his back, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. When Levi doesn’t speak, Eren begins to wonder if he is dreaming.

 “I live nearby,” Eren hears him say. The man indicates the path. “This is a shortcut.”

 Eren steps off the grass and out onto the path. “Oh, I see.”

 “What about you?”

 “I’m… visiting my mother’s grave.”

 “Oh.”

 Levi looks up at him and Eren cannot bear to meet his gaze; he pulls a hand through his hair and closes his eyes for a short while.

 “Where are you going?” the writer asks.

 “I don’t know.”

 “Do you want to go for a drink?”

 Eren glances at Levi, but he is looking ahead.

 “Yeah,” he says after some time, taking another step, pebbles scattering. “Yeah, that sounds good, actually.”

_______

 

 It’s late and he knows that he is way too drunk, but he cannot bring himself to care, is unable to care, does not possess the ability to care, as he downs yet another glass of a beverage that he can’t really taste all that well anymore. It’s alcohol, at least, and he’s fine as long as it’s alcohol.

 “Eren, I think that’s enough.”

 There is a hand on his shoulder. It’s Levi’s hand – Levi Ackerman’s hand. He almost giggles at the thought, because it’s so surreal. Levi Ackerman here – with him. What is he doing here with him?

 “Yeah, I know. I know…” he mutters. “But…”

 “Let’s call a cab.”       

 Eren turns to him, voice urgent. “No, I…” he bites his lip. It feels like his face is burning up. Levi is looking at him, patiently waiting. He’s really close; they sit shoulder to shoulder; Eren can feel the heat of the author’s body.

 “Please,” he mutters, entranced by the pale of Levi’s eyes. “Take me home with you.”

 A slow half-smile stretches on the writer’s lips, and it lingers, along with his stare. “I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of drunk college students,” he says, yet he is leaning in even closer; or maybe Eren is the one leaning in, drawn by the heat of a stare that has a language of it’s own.

 “Make an exception, then.”

 The author chuckles, and it’s the first time Eren has ever heard him do that, and there is a jolt in his stomach. But the author is removing himself from his space; he swallows the remainder of his drink and is suddenly standing beside him.

 “Let’s go.”

 Shaking minutely, Eren follows the author out of the bar, heart beating in his chest, and he is so grateful that he is able to walk somewhat steadily.

 Outside it is dark; softly the night envelops them.

 Levi is right there, but it is hard to make him out in the darkness; his form is more fleeting than not; metaphysical rather than corporeal. Eren is shivering but it’s not cold anymore. “Levi,” he whispers, and reaches for the man in the dark.

 And the writer lets Eren curl a hand around his arm, lets himself be pulled towards the student, but otherwise he does nothing, and Eren does nothing, apart from feeling the warmth of Levi’s body. But hands are gripping Eren’s shirt, forcing him to meet Levi’s eyes as the shorter man leans up towards him.

 Inexplicably, Eren feels more clearheaded now, perhaps it is the night air, and his eyes have gotten used to the dark, so he can see Levi better. He is close, eyes flickering as they swallow him in the dark. “Eren,” he says, voice something like a dark river. “I’m going to walk you home, okay?”

 When Eren tells him his address, the writer knows it. Levi Ackerman guides him through the underlit streets; they follow them like eyes caressing inked letters, in silence, but surging with meaning. Levi’s step is so sure, it doesn’t falter, it doesn’t hesitate, and it’s like he knows the streets better than Eren does, like maybe he was the one who invented them.

 Soon they arrive at Eren’s building. The walk has done the brunet good, but he is still feeling reckless, and strange, like he could evaporate at any moment. It terrifies him.

 Levi is watching him; the customary eyes that dissect; they cut through him, all the way through to uncover the Emptiness that lies within.

 “You are unhappy,” he says.

 The author steps closer, places a hand on his stomach, runs it across his chest; the warmth seeps into him through his shirt. Eren’s breath turns ragged when the hand reaches his neck, touches his skin, caresses.

 “Yes.”

 A familiar scent is carried on the wind; the scent of lilacs, from the tree by the corner of the building, most likely. Every spring it hangs heavy with blossoms, every year he is too late to appreciate it. The scent is a reminder; a tightening in his chest. 

 “You are lonely.”

 Eren's voice is barely there when he repeats the feeble word, “Yes.”

 There is pity in the author’s voice when he says, “You found something in _Metaphysics._ ”

 “Yes.”

 “What did you find?”

 The night is melting between them; it turns into liquid; the scent of lilacs is mixed in; the masses shift.

 “I don’t know,” he breathes, and he is being truthful, but the man before him looks disappointed, he frowns, but before he can retreat Eren crosses the immense gap that lies between them and presses his lips against Levi's, and it's like kissing something cold and inky; like his lips will be stained black when they part, like something will spill from his mouth if he stops. So he kisses the writer harder, desperate, scared of pulling back, and the _want_ is so intense; the hunger, the restless hunger.

 Levi's lips respond; slowly they move against Eren’s, forcing him to slow down, to match his pace. It sends a thrill through the student; he presses his body closer to the writer, before it can evaporate into the night. 

 Hands trek up his torso, before gently pushing him away. 

 "Levi..."

 "You should go inside. It's getting colder," he says, his voice soft, like velvet. The softness, the calm, the languor; the front, is betrayed by the look in the man's eyes. Yet, he removes himself. He steps out of the light that pours from a lamp hanging by the front entrance, and is suddenly too far away. "I'll be seeing you, Eren."   

 And Eren is glad when the author is gone, because he had been only moments away from spilling himself all over the tarmac beneath his feet.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ 
> 
> I'm so sorry it took me such a long time to finish this, but I S2G this is literally the hardest thing I've ever written…Honestly, I spend so much time agonizing over this story and I'm not sure if I'm doing justice to it at all.  
> Your thoughts are absolutely invaluable to me, so if you can spare a few moments to leave a comment, I would be eternally grateful. Thank you so much for reading, and for sticking with this, even though I'm a slowpoke :(
> 
> If you want to nag me or tell me cool things my tumblr is central-and-remote


	7. Nowhere

They have migrated to _Nowhere,_ where author and student continue their meetings as if nothing has happened. This movement was not discussed by either, nor was it explicitly decided upon; it merely seemed like a natural development. There is something about the place that is appealing to Eren; he thinks it must be its anonymity. He wonders if this is the case for Levi, too.

 Something is different now. Levi is more willing to speak about himself and his work, yet, that doesn’t mean that it has become any easier to understand him. Eren is struggling while he listens to the author. He knows he needs to penetrate the words if he wants to learn, but they aren’t transparent; their only purpose seems to be aimed at shrouding the author further – and it’s frustrating.

 This is why he has become obsessed with the author’s body, Eren concludes. For his gaze is always drawn to the man’s small frame; the slender neck, the thick, black hair, the pale skin, the long fingers that curl around a pen, or a glass. Eren feels a desperate need to unveil the skin that is covered by clothing, to feel, to touch, _to see._ It has become maddening to be in the writer’s presence. Eren recognises it, albeit vaguely, as an attempt to grasp the man as something physical, because otherwise, he is falling short.

 Levi is too disparate, too fleeting – and so, as an abstract term, the mind cannot hold him. It is a realisation that upsets Eren, and the frustration builds the more he spends time with him, the longer he beholds him. Levi looks at Eren like he knows; maybe, yet with collectedness that Eren lacks.

 What is more frustrating, is that the author has, somehow, managed to turn the tables, now extracting more information about Eren than Eren is extracting about him; something which is making the student very uncomfortable. Even when he attempts to skirt around a subject, or tries to deflect a question, no matter what he does, the way he shrugs, his tone of voice, the direction his eyes flash; it all gives something away, and Levi takes notice – Eren can see how carefully the author’s gaze is resting on him. Somehow or other, Levi will always take something from him.

 They are sitting at the bar, two glasses before them, one half-empty, the other barely touched. Today a strange genre of music is playing; Eren cannot recall having heard anything remotely similar before. He doesn’t become conscious of its peculiarity before there is a lull in their conversation, giving the music an opportunity to make a full impression on him. But the strange tones soon fade to the back of his mind as a persistent question barges its way to the front.

 “Will you tell me more about the time you were travelling?” he asks suddenly, glancing over at Levi who is sitting next to him.

 The author removes his gaze from the glass on the counter. He considers the student for a moment; taking note of the light colour that dusts the tan skin of the brunet’s face. His fingers are tracing the condensation on the chilled glass before him: droplets run down the rivers that he makes.

 “No.”

 Eren’s face falls – a look of disappointment, which, after seeing the smile on Levi’s lips, quickly adopts a disgruntled expression. Levi takes a sip of his drink. “First, I want to talk about you.”

 Eren is frowning. “Why?”

 “Why? Because you interest me, of course.”

 Levi holds his gaze for as long as Eren lets him.

 Eren doesn’t want to talk about himself, but it’s clear that Levi won’t reveal anything if he doesn’t talk first – he has proved to be adamant about this. But Eren strongly dislikes the idea of the author enquiring about him; he feels like Levi already knows too much.

 He doesn’t say anything to signify his compliance, but the author goes ahead anyway.

 “Tell me why you’re studying literature.”

 Eren hesitates, yet finding the question innocent enough. “Well, it’s because I love it. Literature.”

 “Hm. You don't sound very convincing.” 

 “What? But I do,” he insists, reaching for the glass of whiskey that Levi has bought for him. “I mean, I do like it – it's just that, maybe, if things were done in a different way I'd enjoy it more.” He fiddles with the glass, raises it to his lips. The liquid burns in his throat.

 Levi is smiling. “You disagree with how the University does things?” 

 “I guess.”

 “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about the strong connection between the University and Jaeger Press House.” The author takes a sip of his drink. He watches the student out of the corner of his eye.

 Mute, Eren shakes his head. He looks at the writer, but doesn’t say anything. The uneasiness is growing within him, but he can’t look away from Levi.

 “And what will you do once you've graduated?” the author’s voice is soft as he puts his glass down. “Will you go work for your father?”

 Levi has posed him this question once before – at that time Eren had refused to answer. This time, when he opens his mouth, Eren finds that his voice is stuck. He clears his throat, and speaks without awareness, curious to hear what words will fall from his lips.

 “Probably… Yes.”

 “Probably, yes?”

 Eren’s mind is muddled. This is not something he wants to discuss; this is something that belongs at the very back of his mind where he can’t reach it – pulling it forward like this hurts. He grits his teeth. The hands in his lap have been balled up into fists. “I’d rather not talk about this.”

 “You don’t want to succeed your father?” Levi persists, and there is a near malignant look in his eyes that makes Eren go cold for a minute.

 “I said, _I’d rather not talk about this_.”

 It looks like the author wants to keep pushing him, though, eventually, he relents – he takes another sip of whisky instead. The ice clinks against the glass when he puts it back down on the counter.

 Slowly, Eren can feel himself starting to relax. Still the feeling of unease remains.

 As if nothing has transpired, Levi poses another question. “Speaking of your father, how is he these days?”

 Levi isn’t looking at him, he’s playing with his glass; ice clinking. The corner of his mouth is turned up in a smile, as if he already knows the answer to his question.

 Eren swallows. “You mean after the release of your book,” he clarifies, “and your speech at the House of Literature.”

 Levi hums. “Yes.”

 “He’s not happy about it.” Eren hesitates, watching Levi closely. “I think he’s worried.”

 The author turns to look at him, smile still present on his lips.

 “So it wasn’t all for nothing.”

 Eren is quiet, expecting the author to continue, but he doesn’t, and there’s a lapse in the conversation. Again Eren notices the peculiar arrangement of the music that is playing.

 “I guess I owe you now,” comes Levi’s voice, and Eren turns his attention back to the writer, somewhat confused.

 “You can ask me something about my past.”

 Suddenly Eren’s mouth feels dry, but his questions have all been lined up in his head, ready to be posed, and it doesn’t take him too long to summon his voice.

 “You said you left home when you were 15,” he begins carefully, like he’s afraid Levi will skitter away at the sound of his voice. “Why?”

 The author only hesitates for a short moment before answering, still his voice sounds strange and stilted when he speaks, which, Eren can’t help but observe, is a little ironic.

 “Because of my parents. They had too many expectations of me and I couldn’t live up to half of them. More importantly, though, was the fact that they couldn’t accept their gay little child.” He shrugs. “So I left.” Levi finishes his drink; glass clinking when he puts it down on the counter. He orders two more, one for himself and one for Eren.

 “Oh,” is what Eren says.

 Levi’s eyes land on him; they are narrow; his frown his severe, and he says, a little defensively. “It’s he best decision I’ve ever made.”

 The student falls silent as he strategises. “Still, it must have been rough.”

 It looks like some of the tension in Levi’s face evaporates, and he concedes, albeit cautiously, “In the beginning it was, but I quickly learnt how to live on the streets.”

 “You lived on the streets?” Eren blurts, unable to hide his surprise.

 Levi clicks his tongue impatiently. “Of course. In the beginning, that is. After some time I gained acquaintances who helped me out and let me stay at their places.” He says it in an off-handed manner. “It wasn’t so bad.”

 “And… you were writing during this time?”

 The tense line of Levi’s mouth relaxes, curls into a smile. “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve always been writing.”

   _______

 Levi’s flat is small and modestly furnished. It could have been called tidy if it hadn’t been for the heaps of books that have been stacked everywhere on the floor. Eren doesn’t mind; it’s familiar.

 A record player is placed on a stand by the sofa; the turntable is spinning and the strange music first encountered in _Nowhere,_ streams out of the speakers.  

Hanji is borrowing his records, Levi had explained. Apparently she is lousy when it comes to actually returning them. Before they left, Levi had stolen behind the bar to retrieve the treasured sleeve. This one is his oldest, his favourite, and the first one he ever got.

 It’s late, but the encroaching darkness might as well not exist for them, as they cannot see it behind the drawn blinds. The room is far from bright, however – the lamp in the ceiling casts a sparse light, an orange glow that you shouldn’t trust; it flickers from time to time.

 On the table sits a bottle of red wine, opened, and almost empty.

It happened some time ago, but Eren has come to realise that the music is having a strange effect on him – it is stirring, provoking – and coupled with the effects of the wine, sitting there, so close to the author, he feels positively intoxicated, and his skin impossibly hot.

 Levi sips his wine, eyes never leaving Eren, who is placing his own empty glass down on the table. The conversation has dwindled, yet again.

 The blood in Eren’s veins feels thick; and it heats up under the heavy gaze Levi has placed on him. Eren feels a familiar tension tugging in his gut, and he finds himself smiling at Levi. Even though the author is hard to read, Eren can enjoy the spectacle that is the man’s eyes; scalding and black as coal; they roam as they like.

 When Levi lowers the glass his lips are stained a slight red. It’s such an irresistible sight that Eren can’t sit still any longer. Throwing away all inhibitions, he leans in close, slowly, until he can feel the heat emanating from Levi’s body, his warm breath ghosting across his face as he delves into those black pools.

 He is not thinking much in this moment, rather he feels. He feels acutely.

 Their lips are almost touching; their eyes dance.

 Levi is not moving a muscle; he merely gazes back at the brunet, eyes lidded, waiting for the other to proceed, curious to see what he will do.

 Eren loves it; loves the thick tension, loves the scorching blood that pulses throughout his body, the temptation of flush lips right before him – so close – the undeniable want in those sharp eyes. 

 His hands wander onto Levi’s thighs as if of their own accord, like it’s on instinct, like he couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried, and at the same moment his tongue comes out to taste the author’s lips. It’s short and teasing, and Eren smiles playfully at the older man, who lets him do as he please.

 Eren hums and brings his tongue back into his mouth. He is not satisfied yet, though, and he leans in so that he can slot his lips to Levi’s. The writer happily indulges the boy, and moves his lips into a wet, lazy kiss that tastes of red wine.

 Eren’s scent invades him, and when he places a hand on the student’s neck he can feel how hot the boy is, skin nearly burning as he presses close, and when Levi deepens the kiss Eren moans into it, fingers massaging the writer’s thigh appreciatively.

 They separate, and Eren leans back on his haunches, his green eyes afire.

 "It’s too hot,” he mutters as he starts to pull up his shirt.

 Levi watches, reaching a hand out to touch the skin as it is being revealed, following the retreating garment up across his torso until he stops at a dark nipple.

 Eren pulls the shirt off and lets it drop to the floor. Levi’s hands are on him, his palms sliding over his skin, and he has to repress a shudder.

 The hands explore the tan skin; thumbs brushing over pert nipples, fingers tracing the outline of his ribs, hands kneading the flesh on his hips – the attention has Eren short of breath in no time. Levi is pulling him closer, and Eren obeys, there is not a thought in his mind not to.

 The writer is looking up at him, eyes molten, and a smile curls his lips at the sight of the youth, muted gasps and huffs leaving him at the merest touch of his hands.

 He presses his mouth to the heated skin of Eren’s stomach, arousal building quickly the moment he feels the smooth skin against his lips and, when he slips his tongue out, taste it. Eren slides a hand into Levi’s hair, cradling his head, while he mouths all over the boy’s abdomen, enjoying the soft sounds that fall from the brunet’s lips; it’s the sweetest kind of music he knows.

 Levi draws back to appreciate the tan skin with his eyes, hands still touching, still feeling the heat of Eren’s body; so maddeningly hot. Eren whimpers, and the writer glances up at him, pleased with the look he is met with; face flushed, eyes shining, lips apart. Staring into the bright green of those eyes, he kisses the soft skin of his belly, watching white teeth biting into rosy lips in order to stifle a moan.

 Levi let’s a hand graze the front of Eren’s pants, and hears a soft gasp from above, before moving his hand again, more firmly, against the hardness beneath the fabric, gaining him an appreciative moan as reward. He massages him slowly, savouring the feeling of hardening flesh. Eren pushes his hips into Levi’s palm, seeking more friction as he struggles to contain his voice.

 But the writer removes his hands, repositioning them to Eren’s thighs.

 Eyeing the now evident bulge in Eren’s pants, the author says, “Looks uncomfortable.” He directs his gaze up at the student, his eyes glittering compellingly. “Maybe you should take them off.”

 “Y-yeah.” Eren’s voice is shaking from excitement; his fingers go to work at the front of his pants. Levi sits back to watch as the button is flicked open, and the zipper pulled down slowly. The boy peels the pants off, down his firm, equally smooth thighs, before stepping off the sofa to take them off all the way, bending down to grant Levi a look at his ass, now only covered by a pair of black boxers.

 And then Eren is on his knees, crouching on the floor, his hands snaking up Levi’s thighs while he pulls himself closer to the man; grinning because he knows how he must look, knows how excited he must be making the other. Finally – finally they are doing this.

 Levi can feel the heat of Eren’s hands through the fabric of his pants; it travels upward, reaches his crotch long before his hands actually get there, and he hums appreciatively when they reach their destination, caressing and fondling and hot and not nearly enough.

 The boy leans in to press his face into his groin. Levi lets out a moan at that; it’s filthy and delightful and fuck, Levi never imagined the kid to be anything like this.

 He reaches down to cup the brunet’s jaw gently, catching his eyes when he asks, “What are you doing, Eren?” His thumb grazes the underside of Eren’s jaw as he waits for an answer.

 Green eyes lock onto his, turning restlessly with the tumult and fierceness of the sea, and the boy smiles sweetly and says in a sweeter voice, “I want to suck your cock, Levi.”

 And the writer is confounded, lost for a moment as he marvels at the warm, half-naked creature between his legs, whose heat is seeping into him, making his blood burn, and his dick harden in his pants.

 It looks as if the author is considering it for a moment, and Eren leans in again to bury his nose in the man’s groin, like he’s trying to convince him, nudging against the hardness he can feel there, smelling it, it nearly driving the writer wild, muttering ‘please,’ ‘please, let me suck you,’ and Levi curses, feeling himself quickly losing his cool.

 “Take off your underwear,” he says, voice rushed, and the student looks up at him inquisitively. “I want you naked. Take them off and you can get what you want.”

 There is that grin again. Eren doesn’t hesitate, but gets to his feet so that the author can see him properly, sliding the boxers down his thighs, slowly, revealing the rigid cock underneath, head flushed and pretty.

 “Like this?” the brunet asks, stepping out of the black garment, conscious of Levi registering his every movement.

 “Turn around,” the writer says, and Eren obeys, turning around, feeling the eyes roaming over the backs of his thighs, his firm ass. When he deems Levi’s stared his fill he turns back around and gets back to his previous position between the writer’s legs, hands already working on his button and zipper.

 “I wasn’t done looking.”

 “Too bad, pervert.”

 Levi doesn’t fail to notice how the brunet’s lips part slightly upon seeing the outline of his half-hard cock, how his lids become heavy with want.

 It’s so good when a warm palm cups him through his underwear, when he hears a pleased sound dropping from Eren’s mouth. It’s even better when the boy leans forward, the slope of his beautiful back and that round ass on display, and attaches his mouth to his cock, suckling it, his saliva soaking through the fabric.

 “ _Haah,_ shit,” – it leaves Levi’s mouth in a hiss, encouraging Eren to keep going, his mouth starting to move over his length with teasing sucks and licks. The brunet removes his mouth and puts his hand onto him, grabbing him firmly through the fabric.

 “Mm, it’s so hard,” he drawls. “It feels so big.”

 Eren looks up at Levi with a wicked smile on his lips. “I want to taste it.”

 The smile vanishes; a short intake of breath when Levi grabs him roughly by the hair, forcing him to crane his neck as he looks up at the older man, startled.

 But Levi doesn’t miss the way Eren’s lids suddenly become heavy; how his breath is coming in laboured huffs; nor how his gaze is hanging onto the author’s like he’s enthralled.

 “Then why don’t you stop playing around and get to it?”

 Levi’s voice is low and dangerous; it washes over the student, causing him to visibly shudder. The writer tightens his fingers in the brown locks, and relishes the sound that Eren lets out.

 The boy merely nods and, finally, lets a warm hand slip beneath fabric to encircle Levi’s hard length.

 An alluring smile stretches on Eren’s lips after he has collected himself and can take in the sight before him. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips; and he leans in, placing them, soft and wet, on the head of Levi’s cock.

 It’s tender, a little worshipping even, and Levi can feel himself growing harder under the touch. Eren’s eyes fall shut as he kisses it again, a small whimper escaping him as he does, and he bestows more kisses to the rigid length, a wet tongue making its appearance as it dips into Levi’s slit, causing the author to hum in satisfaction. He pulls the student closer by the hair and Eren complies readily, suckling him as he starts to move down the member, engaging his tongue more as he laps at the hot flesh. 

 The author doesn’t mind the slow pace; he finds it exquisite, insanely arousing. Still, he is grateful when, cock red with arousal and shining with the brunet’s saliva, Eren returns to the tip and, green eyes flicking up to him viciously, wraps his lips around him, bringing him into the hot, wet velvet of his mouth.

 “Mm – fuck,” he groans, tightening his grip on Eren’s head, pulling him towards him.

 Eren loves the feel of him in his mouth, loves how he makes the man moan and harden against his tongue. He takes him in all the way and swallows around him, allowing the man to hold him in place as he bucks his hips up, seeking the glorious tightening of his throat.

 Eren eases off and slides back up the length, his tongue following every bump and ridge of the flesh, to the tip where his saliva collects. He brings his thumb up to massage the head gently, spreading spit and precum around before he is bending down to lap it all up, tongue dipping into the slit, moaning when he tastes the bitterness there.

 “How is it?” the author asks him, his voice hoarse, deeper than Eren can remember. His hand comes down to cup the brunet’s jaw like before, and Eren tilts his head into it, meeting the author’s stare – it all contributes to send a thrill through the student.

 His fingers curl around the rigid length, giving it a squeeze, and Levi releases him so that he can go back to work. Eren lowers his head again, positions the cock at his mouth once more, letting the tip of it trace his lips, slipping the slick head all over. “It’s good,” he whispers, giving the head wet-hot kisses. “It’s so good.”

 He is satisfied with the look on Levi’s face.  

 Eren is getting painfully hard himself; nothing turns him on more than giving head, and he cannot stop his free hand from slipping down between his legs to wrap around his own erection, giving it a few appeasing pumps. His eyes fall shut, and his lips part on a moan as he temporarily pulls off of Levi to savour the feeling.

 “Shit, look at you,” the author breathes; it’s low and dark and _god_ if it doesn’t go straight to Eren’s cock. He bites his lip, feeling Levi’s eyes on him in the dark, scorchingly hot, and he hears him saying, “Are you enjoying yourself, Eren?”

 The student opens his eyes, gratified by the heat and the solidness of Levi’s stare. A nod and a coy look is the answer Levi gets.

 Eren is still touching himself, but the stimulation is more teasing than anything. He is more interested the sight before him; the flush in the writer’s cheeks, the sweat on his brow, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he tilts his head to look at him where he sits on the floor; the way his hand has slid down to work himself over while Eren had been distracted. Seeing the man worked up to such a degree fills Eren with renewed desire and he repositions himself.

 His mouth falls open, and Levi’s fingers slip into the locks of his hair while he guides his cock back into the waiting mouth. When he is engulfed by the tight, wet heat once more, he closes his eyes and releases a shaky breath. While listening to the sweet, filthy sounds, coming from Eren’s mouth, Levi caresses the boy’s scalp, guiding him as his length is swallowed down. The kid sure knows how to suck cock; it’s undoubtedly among the best blowjobs Levi’s received. A particularly hard suck has the writer groaning, and he pushes the willing mouth further down his cock.

 “Fuck,” he curses, somewhat out of breath as he rolls his hips into the tightness. “You do this often, Eren?”

 The brunet hums, sending delicious vibrations through him, and Levi takes it as a yes. “Mm, I can tell.” He brushes a brown lock behind Eren’s ear, catches a flash of green as Eren’s gaze flickers to his for a short second.

 The lips tighten around him, making Levi moan. His fingers caress Eren’s jaw. “You like sucking cock, huh?” he mutters, his voice thick, and breath uneven. He can feel the end drawing close now, but Eren is pulling off him again. His hand remains, though, stroking the soaked erection firmly, causing obscene sounds to echo in the room along with Levi’s moans. The record has finished playing a long time ago.

 Eren watches Levi hungrily, bringing his bottom lip in between his teeth and releasing it slowly. He leans in once more, keeping his eyes on Levi as he sticks his tongue out, slowly. He laps at the tip of his cock, trailing his lips down the engorged flesh, all the way down to lick and suck at his balls, revelling in the feel of them tightening beneath his mouth. His eyes slide back to Levi’s.

 “I love it,” he whispers, and Levi is entranced by those fierce eyes, and the sweet, swollen lips. “I love the feel of it in my mouth, the weight of it on my tongue, the way it tastes…” Eren is dribbling on the tip, his spit mixing with the precum that is quickly collecting there. Levi feels like he is about to burst.

 “Yeah?”

 Eren nods and he looks at Levi with lidded eyes, saying in a hoarse whisper, “Fuck, I want you to come in my mouth.”

 He is touching himself again, seeming a little delirious with pleasure, and Levi thinks he would have been content to just watch Eren touch himself like this if it weren’t for the fact that he thinks he might go insane if he doesn’t come soon.

 He doesn’t have to order the brunet because he is already there, taking him onto his tongue again and guiding him back into his mouth, now bobbing his head at a fast pace. It’s not long before Levi feels the familiar tightening of his balls, and with one last suck to the head of his cock, he is coming. Eren faithfully keeps his mouth on him through it all, while his hand jerks him off, coaxing out every drop, to be sampled by an eager tongue that laps at his slit, and a mouth that diligently cleans him up.

 Slowly, Eren let’s the cock slip from his mouth and he sits back on his hunches with a satisfied look on his face. Levi gestures him towards him and the student shuffles forward again until the writer can reach him. Levi cups Eren’s jaw; his eyes sparkling, and his thumb comes out to trace the boy’s red, bottom lip.

 “Did you swallow already?” he asks.

 Eren shakes his head, a scheming smile on lips.

 “Show me.”

 Dutifully, Eren parts his lips to reveal a tongue covered in thick, white come. Transfixed, Levi slips his thumb inside to touch the red muscle, revelling in the sight and the texture of it. The student moans and gasps for breath, his eyes are heavy with excitement and his cock is still rock hard between his legs.

 Levi withdraws his thumb. “How does it taste?”

 He watches Eren’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and he notes that he likes the way the student bites his lip. “It tastes good. It tastes so good,” he whines, and he is dripping on the floor – Levi thinks he might be getting hard again.

 Presently the creature gets up from the floor; he is crawling into the author’s lap. “Touch me,” he breathes against his ear, grabbing his hand and moving it in between his legs, to his straining cock. “Please, touch me.”

 When Levi takes pity on him and wraps his fingers around the wet flesh, the brunet hisses and bucks his hips into Levi’s fist. “F-fuck,” he stutters, and Levi tightens his hold, dragging his fist over the brunet’s cock, wanting to coax out and sample all the pleasured sounds that the student can make. He moves his hand, slowly at first, listening intently as the boy in his lap whimpers and bites his lip in an attempt to check his voice, while his eyes fall shut in pleasure.

 Eren gasps, and chokes on a sob when Levi speeds up, only pausing to let his thumb circle the head of Eren’s dick, slipping it through the slickness there, taking his time to spread it down over the shaft.

 Desperately, Eren seeks Levi’s mouth. They exchange sloppy, open-mouthed kisses, in-between which Levi breathes filthy praise into Eren’s mouth.

 “You’re so wet, Eren, so good. Hm… you gonna come? You gonna come for me?”

 “Ah, shit – yes. God, I’m –”

 Eren clings to the author as he feels his orgasm rushing through his body; and Levi holds him tightly, wringing it all out of him, muttering against his ear while the boy rides it out in his lap.

 Next thing he knows, Eren is kissing him, a tongue, tasting of his own come, licking its way into his mouth. He lets him; and starts to move his own tongue against the brunet’s, while he listens to the still racing heart in the body he is holding, and the hot breaths that are washing over his own lips.

 It has become too quiet now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, can anyone remember how squeamish I used to be about writing smut? Well, apparently I've been cured.  
> I guess I've just come to terms with the fact that I'm utterly depraved. But, yoo, I don't want to say it, but I'm going to anyways, it ain't just pure smut, you guys. 
> 
> And again - I am SO sorry for the long wait between chapters. But seriously, I've moved to the U.S. for the semester, and uni here is absolutely crazy, I can hardly find time to write. I'll do my best, though.
> 
> I will love you forever if you leave your thoughts for me!! <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Shiganshina winter

 Levi’s flat is situated in an old brick building that was built sometime during the previous century. The flat is cheap, as cheap as it gets, and it is absolutely freezing in winter. Still, Levi doesn’t mind its shabbiness. It has a certain kind of aesthetic that he likes – the starving-poor-romantic author aesthetic, which suits him well. Besides, he has lived places far worse, places that can’t even compare.

 Half a year ago Levi was forced to come back to Shiganshina. He had been away for 13 years, travelling the continent, and is used to having little or nothing. Upon his return, however, money was no longer a problem.

 He had not intended to stay longer than necessary. It was simple; he did not belong in Shiganshina. Yet, he realised, there was nowhere he _really_ did belong, having spent the better part of his life in a state of constant vagrancy. There was nothing, nothing important, that compelled him to return to the continent. So Levi decided to stay in Shiganshina for the time being.

 Soon after, he found the flat he’s currently living in. Initially, the landlord had been reluctant to lease it to him, which was understandable: half a year ago the author had been in quite a state. However, upon seeing Levi’s bank statements, the landlord had become very accommodating.      

 It is always cold in the flat. The insulation is terrible - in some of the walls Levi suspects there is no insulation at all - and when you live in a place like Shiganshina, where the winter really wishes to see you dead, you want good insulation. The cold seeps in through the walls, into his body, and so Levi drinks heavily, to trick himself into believing he is warm.

 For some time Levi lived aimlessly. The time he didn’t spend shivering in his flat, agonizing over his writing, he spent in bars where he drank until he could not see or think or feel anything. Things changed when he one day he stumbled upon a bar called _Nowhere,_ where he met an old friend from what seemed to be a distant past – Hanji Zoe. Some time later, at the same place, he met another old friend, Erwin Smith. Levi had not been surprised to hear that he had become an editor. He was surprised, however, when Erwin told him he wanted to read Levi’s writings. From then on things changed drastically, and suddenly Levi was a published author.

 It was winter at that time. Shiganshina is bitterly cold in winter, Levi had almost forgotten, but his body remembered quickly - it is a cold that silently settles in your bones, and you carry it within you. Remembering, he knew that even when he left all those years ago, the Shiganshina winter inside him had never really thawed––he had carried it with him all this time.

 The weight and warmth of another body is against him now, all soft skin - blood rushing beneath it - and warm breath cascading down his nape as the body shakes in its last moments of pleasure. It is the most scorching body he has ever held. The warmth is overwhelming. When the brunet refuses to separate himself from Levi, the author doesn’t argue; he greedily takes what is offered.

 The student is beautiful. Levi had thought so from the first time he laid eyes on him, had admired the fierce shine in his eyes, the defiance in him. After learning the boy's identity he knew he had to see him again; and after that, he was obsessed. Furiously so.

 That night was the hottest he'd ever spent in that flat, pressed close against the younger man's body; his skin so hot he was a living coal writhing in his arms.

  _____

 Eren is almost nodding off, enjoying the last rays of sun spilling through the window where he sits. The trilling of the doorbell pulls him fully back into the present, away from that soft, comfortable, murky state. He's a little disoriented, but soon he's conscious enough to get to his feet. Yawning he makes his way over to the stairs, but before he can descend he hears the creaking of floorboards downstairs and a voice that calls out “Eren?”

 He falters. Standing at the top of the stairs, his breath stuck uncomfortably in his chest, it strikes him how familiar the scenario is. Transported years into the past, he is a child once more, standing at the top of the stairs, biting his fingers out of fear and confusion, thinking, what has he done wrong now? But he knows it does not do to stall, that only makes it worse. So he descends, feigning a smile as he meets his father. 

 “Grisha,” he says.

 It has been a long time since Eren saw him standing there on the old, lamenting wooden floor, between the towering book cases, with eyes piercing through his polished glasses. In that moment Eren is suddenly aware of who really owns the place, who really belongs here - and it is not him, not Eren. It was never Eren.

 Grisha’s gaze has shifted: it roams the store, scanning over hundreds of spines, grazing the unlit corners, the papers on Eren’s desk.

 “What are you doing here?” the student asks with a voice that barely sounds in the total silence; it is as if the room is actively trying to sabotage him by swallowing it.

 Finally, Grisha looks at Eren. “I just wanted to see how you are doing, how the inventory is coming along. Where are your papers?”

 Eren retrieves them from a desk drawer, hands them over to his father with a harrowing feeling in his stomach. He knows they should have gotten further, and that he should be worried about his father’s reaction. Still, at the moment, the inventory is, in fact, not what he is most worried about.

 The publisher looks through the papers, his frown severe and lips set in a thin line, obviously displeased. “So this is all that you have accomplished so far?”

 Eren nods.

 Grisha hands him the papers. “It’s not good enough. What is the point of having two employees here if you are both this incompetent?”

 "Auruo has done more than I!”

 Eren clears his throat and continues in a calmer voice. “If it hadn’t been for him we wouldn’t even have gotten this far. His library training has been invaluable.”

 Grisha beholds him for a long moment. The tension in Eren’s body is taut. Why is he so nervous?

 “There is something else I wanted to talk to you about,” Grisha is saying.

 Eren moves behind the desk, trying to keep himself calm and inconspicuous––he is certain that he is failing. “Oh?”

 “I have been told that you are spending time with Levi Ackerman.”

 A flash of cold runs through his body; his skin feels clammy beneath his clothes.

 Why does it feel like his father can _see_? See where the author has touched him? His touch seems so ingrained on his skin - surely it is visible.

 Eren looks up, knowing he cannot avoid his father’s gaze for much longer. Thoughts race through his head in a fury.

 Grisha’s voice is a threat. “Is that true?”

 Eren shakes his head and puts his hands on the desk in an attempt at looking assertive, or perhaps to steady himself. With an expression that is confused and a little indignant, at least he hopes so, he tells his father, no, it’s not true - who told him that?

 “If I find out that you are lying to me, Eren, believe me, you will regret it.”

 Grisha is angry; his voice is calm but lower than usual, because he is struggling to keep it in check, and the knuckles of his hand, grasping a leather briefcase, are straining white against his skin. Eren knows the phenomenon well.

 “I’m not lying,” Eren says firmly, almost believing it himself.

 Grisha relaxes, a little, but he does not look convinced. “I want the inventory done in two weeks,” he says, starting to put on his gloves. He looks back to Eren, who stands, struck dumb.

 “What! That’s impossible!”

 “In two weeks.”

 Eren cannot believe what he is hearing. The sheer number of books surrounding them is suddenly so overwhelming, even more intimidating than before. The project is not something Eren ever saw them finishing––at least not in the near future.

 “But… how can we - I’ve got school and the _Journal,_ too! There’s no way I’ll be able to finish it all in time. You’re crazy!”

 Grisha is looking at him with disgust and Eren feels a twinge of horror in his stomach. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth.

 But, in reality, there is simply not enough time to get it all done, not within the regular hours of the store. It would take them hours and hours of hard work and overtime if Eren and Auruo were to finish on time - Grisha knows that.

 There would be no time to do anything else. See anyone else.

 “I have two people employed here, have I not? If you can’t finish it by the end of next week, Auruo is fired.”

 Eren’s stomach sinks.

 “What?” he says, inaudible.

 “And you are not allowed to neglect the _Journal_ while you are working on the inventory.”

 Eren wants to die.

 Grisha does not spare him another look before he walks out the door.

 “I suggest you get to it.”

  ______      

 When Auruo comes in the next day, walking too quickly and wearing an expression that looks a little paranoid, groaning “Man I’m gonna lose my job,” it is obvious that Grisha has told him about their deadline, and its consequences if not met. Eren is relieved that he doesn’t have to break it to him, but he feels terribly guilty, since it is all his fault. This, he knows, is exactly how Grisha wants him to feel.

 Moreover, Eren knows that Grisha does not trust him, does not believe him when he says that he has never met with Ackerman, which is why he is being locked up in the bookstore with Auruo, effectively preventing him from seeing the author.

 But Eren does not understand, exactly, what his father is trying to achieve. Sure, he won’t be able to see Ackerman for some time, but when the inventory is done there will be nothing stopping him from meeting him again.

 Or…?

 Is there something he has missed? Something important?

 He can’t stop worrying about it all the while they are working, which makes it much harder to concentrate, and he makes an incredible amount of mistakes that has Auruo pulling his hair out and accusing him of sabotage.

 On the top of it all, he can’t stop thinking about Levi; can’t stop thinking about the night they spent together; can’t stop thinking about wanting to see him again; have him touch him again. Honestly, it gets him a little frustrated.

 And yet, at the same time he is frightened. Seeing the author is dangerous.

 Grisha knows, suspects that Eren has had something to do with Ackerman. If anything, Eren should stay away from the man - which is easy to do when he has so much work.

 “You’re avoiding me, aren’t you?” Ackerman asks him on the phone one day. “You regret what we did?”

 “No, not exactly. I–I wanna do it again. It’s just that I’m swamped with work at the moment.”

 “You want me to fuck you again?”

 Eren’s breath catches in his throat. “Yeah. If you want.”

 “Mm, I wouldn’t mind.” There is a pause, and then a shift in Ackerman’s tone of voice. “And your article?”

 “I’m…working on it.”

 “Hm. Call me when you’re free.”

 “Sure.”

 There is this feeling, growing somewhere inside him, which is causing him restless nights. It is a cold fear, which is a foul bedmate; it gnaws on his marrow, and wraps him in its cold arms - paralysing him.

 Eren fears his father, but this particular fear is not directed at him; it’s directed at Ackerman.

 What will happen if he gets more involved with Ackerman? And what does the author want with him? Eren is no longer sure what he should do.

 “Eren, you don’t look so good. Are you all right?”

 “Hm? Yes. I’m good. Thanks.”

 Armin is looking at him. He knows he’s not telling the truth. Eren makes an effort to lie more convincingly.

 “Grisha is working me to the bone, Armin. I’m exhausted, but I’m fine. Stop worrying about me.”

 It seems to satisfy Armin, for now, and he leaves Eren in peace, focusing instead on the essay he is writing.

 Eren wonders what he should blame his mood on when they finally finish the inventory. Oh, right. There is always the piece on Ackerman to worry about. The idea of it is like a parasite that has sunk its teeth into his flesh; slowly it seems to be draining him of life. Eren tries to remember the excitement, the empowerment he used to feel when thinking about the article, and the opportunities it could bring.

 Now he wonders if he will be able to finish it.

 He wonders whether he is able to see Ackerman again.

 ______

 When Levi walks into the store he is surprised to see an unfamiliar man sitting by the desk, Eren’s usual spot. The man does not even look up when he enters; he seems to be extremely busy. The sight of him irks the author.

 Levi walks up to the man. “Is Eren here today?”

 The man jumps, turning two wide, and somewhat bloodshot eyes at him. “What? Eren?” he blinks. “Eren…” It looks like he’s struggling to remember someone by that name. “Ah, the kid’s upstairs.” He yawns, then he’s narrowing his eyes at the author. “Y’know him?”

 Levi shrugs, “I wouldn’t say that,” and makes his way over to the stairs before he is forced into a conversation he doesn’t want to have.

 “Well, don’t bother him if you don’t have to. We have a shitton of work to do.”

 Levi makes a vague hand gesture and starts climbing the stairs.

 “Oh, and!” the man shouts after him, “We’re closing soon!”

 Levi pretends he didn’t hear.

 The second floor is more chaotic than he remembers; books are lying in heaps everywhere, but the room is well lit, not murky like last time he was here. He can’t see Eren anywhere. He walks further into the room, watching his step.

 A tower of books has collapsed; they lie in a landslide on the floor; a few loose pages lie next to them, like a spillage of sand.

 He passes a bookshelf and his eyes fall upon Eren sitting on the floor by the window, his body limp, eyes closed, head resting on the wall beside him. There is a book and a checklist in his lap, and more books surrounding him on the floor, as well as a cup of coffee, likely cold.

 “Eren.” 

 The student doesn't stir. 

 There are bags beneath his eyes, and his hair is pointing in all directions, like he has been scratching his head or running his hands through it every five seconds. His shirt is crumpled, riding up a little in the back as he's hunched over somewhat. It doesn’t look like a comfortable position to be sleeping in. Levi wonders how long it has been since the boy got some decent sleep. 

 “Eren,” he repeats, a little louder, and he sees the student scrunch up his eyes in annoyance, a twitch of his head as if he’s trying to avoid the irritating sound of his name. Reluctantly, it seems, his eyes open, and he stares ahead at the bookcase before him, wondering whether it’s the one guilty of calling his name. But then he becomes aware of Levi standing next to him, taller than he remembers. “Levi?” he says, squinting up at the man, unsure if he's actually awake. 

 “Do you usually sleep while you're on the clock?”

 Eren's eyes widen, realising what he has done. He sits up, wiping a hand over his mouth, knowing he is liable to drool while sleeping, and self-consciously combs a hand through his hair, only to make it worse. He knows he looks like a mess and the last thing he wants is for the author to see him like this. 

 “Shit,” he mutters, suddenly distracted. “How long was I out for?”

 He starts searching for something, and eventually locates the checklist in his lap. He groans when looking at it, devastated. 

 “I guess you weren't lying about being busy,” Levi is saying. 

 Eren turns his attention back to the author. 

 “What are you doing here?”

 “I wanted to see you.”

  _Why?_

He avoids the author's eyes. 

 Levi’s gaze is fixed on the brunet. After a short pause he says, “You look terrible.”

 “Thanks.”

 Something has changed. The student is acting differently towards him. Hesitant. On edge.

 Levi reaches a hand down, fingers slowly ghosting through the brown shock of hair, dipping down to brush against his scalp. The contact makes Eren shudder, but he does not shy away. Levi bends down a little, and lets his hand fall down to the boy’s cheek, forcing him to look him in the eye. Green eyes blink owlishly at him.

 “Is everything all right?”

 The warmth of the hand is welcome. Eren hasn’t felt the warmth of another’s skin since… since he was with Levi. He feels his face heat up under the author’s stare.

 “I’m fine,” he says, finally pulling away from the caress. “Overworked, is all.”

 “Hm…” Eren’s head is lowered. Levi stares at the back of his head. “You’re a very strange person.”

 Eren looks up, confused. “What?”

 Levi meets his questioning gaze, holds it for a long time. The grey of his eyes, Eren thinks it has hardened.

 “Why do you do it?”

 “Do what?”

 “This.” Levi gestures to the store around them. “And why do you put so much work into it? You hate this place.”

 “I–” Eren begins but he has to stop, start over. He lowers his head again. “I don’t hate it.”

 The student looks distressed, but Levi is ruthless. He studies Eren for a long while, but the brunet refuses to meet his eyes. “You also have zero self-awareness,” he says.

 Eren thinks he should be angry, but he isn’t. He just stares, blindly ahead, at no one. “You don’t understand,” he mutters.

 For a moment it is quiet.

 “I don’t think you understand anything either.”

 Eren doesn’t turn to look, but he hears the author leaving; feet carefully picking their way through the avalanche of books, the stairs creaking as he descends.

 “You’re right,” he whispers to no one.

 Eren’s alone again.

  ______

 Grisha told him not to neglect the _Journal_ while working in the bookstore, but that is easier said than done. As it turns out, it is, in fact, impossible.

 Many of the meetings Eren cannot attend and he knows it is getting the team frustrated and annoyed. When he told them his reasons for slacking, they were sympathetic, but as the date for publication looms nearer, it is hard not to get worked up. Still, none of them can even begin to match Eren’s level of distress.

 His piece on _Metaphysics_ is nowhere near finished, and, as it is, Eren has started debating whether or not he should finish it at all. What is more, he hasn’t been able to see Levi in many days and the author hasn’t tried to contact him either. Eren wonders if it’s too late, if he has blown the greatest opportunity he will ever have.

 Suddenly he is scared. He has never been so scared before, not even of his father.

 Levi Ackerman scares Eren half to death. So, in an act of desperation, he calls him.

 “Don’t you need to work?” he is asked when the author shows up at the store. Eren shakes his head. Eren locks up. They are alone in the store.

 And then he is pressed onto the desk, sighing when he feels Levi’s hot breath on his neck, followed by a pair of soft lips. “No-o, I– ah!” Levi’s hand is cupping him through his jeans, squeezing him tightly; his teeth scrape over his neck, like he wants to bite into the flesh, like he’s ravenous.

 Eren’s excited, sober, but excited. He can feel Levi’s hardness against his thigh, and he shivers at the thought of it. It’s warm, it’s good, and he wants more, but it feels like he’s losing his mind.

 He’s not sure what he’s doing. He’s not sure what they’re doing.

 What does Levi want from him?

 The author buries his hand in Eren’s hair as he pulls him in for a kiss; a kiss that is sinful and wet, a tongue that is sweet and slippery, teeth that sink into his lip; hard enough to draw blood.

 “I want to take you apart,” the author whispers into his ear, hands slipping down his naked torso and down into his pants. “Bit by bit.” Eren clings to his neck, lets himself be pulled close, bites his lip when he feels a warm hand wrapping around his naked flesh. Levi works him slowly, languidly, making Eren whimper in frustration, as he breathes into ear: “And I want to piece you back together.”

 Eren closes his eyes, lets the pleasure course through him, and gives himself over to the author, craving more of his touch. And yet, in the back of his mind something is not right.

 Levi takes him there on the floor.

 It’s wrong; it’s the ultimate offense. And it’s rough, rougher than last time.

 Levi is pushing him down, driving into him brutally from behind, only to slow down, sliding out completely and slipping inside once more, slowly, so that Eren can feel him, entirely; feel it when he buries himself as deep as he can go, fucking him slow like that.

 And Eren is biting his hand to keep all the noises from spilling out, but Levi pushes his fingers into his mouth, prying it open, and Eren is pulled into his lap, where the pace is slowed yet again.

 Eren grinds down onto him, and Levi bucks up, biting his shoulder, causing the student to cry out. “H-ah, fuck me, Levi.”

 A hand moves from Eren’s hip, sliding up his torso until it reaches a nipple; the other hand finds its way in between his legs, where it closes around his hard length. A gasp leaves the brunet when he feels a thumb teasing the wet tip, and he clenches unwittingly, making Levi groan.

 “Shit, you feel so good.”

 And Levi’s grip tightens, stroking Eren’s cock faster as his own hips pick up the pace.

 It’s so hot. Eren can barely breathe, can barely articulate words, can barely form thoughts; he can only feel - feel the pleasure that is being pounded into him.

 He is pushed down again, on all fours; his cheek pressed against the cold wood. Levi’s fist flies over Eren’s cock, which is dripping with precum, while his hips knock into the younger man without respite, bruising the smooth skin.

 And then Eren is coming, crying out as he shoots hot and hard over Levi’s fingers, dripping onto the floor. Levi fucks him right through it, and doesn’t stop until he reaches his own climax.

 “Fuck!”

 He sinks in as far as possible, feeling how his cock throbs with his release, and finds himself wishing, perhaps for the very first time, that he isn’t wearing a condom.

 Eren moans while the author continues to buck into him, seeking to prolong the waves of pleasure that surge through his body. Levi drapes himself over the student’s back, his skin sticky and hot. “Mm, Eren.” Levi’s voice is hoarse in his ear, thick with sex and cum. “What would your father say if he could see you now?”

 Eren freezes. All of a sudden he is aware of how his knees are digging into the floorboards, the ache in his back; how his insides suddenly have turned cold. Any lingering pleasure is dispelled from his system - it’s like he’s been slapped in the face.

 Eren feels Levi withdraw, groaning as he slips out of him, and he feels empty and hollow and cold.

 He has to move now. He turns around to face the author. His voice is only a hoarse whisper. “What the fuck?”

 Levi meets his gaze, but Eren can’t make out his eyes very well in the half-light, though he can see the slight smirk on his lips. The writer reaches out a pale hand, cupping Eren’s cheek, bringing him closer. “Come on, Eren. Don’t be uptight.” A thumb comes out to caress his bottom lip, slowly, sensually. “It was only a joke,” he whispers.

 Eren’s fingers close around Levi’s wrist, firmly, before pushing his hand away.

 “Don’t… touch me.”

 The author hesitates only for a moment, then he withdraws.

 For a while their breathing, heavy still, is the only sound in the vast space around them. It’s like a void; and Eren feels like he might slip away into it at any moment.

 “Please leave,” he says, although he is terrified of being left alone. There. Now. In that very moment.

 He doesn’t look at Levi, but he can feel the author’s eyes on him in the stillness. Some time passes before he can hear the author move; putting on his clothes, collecting his things; then it is quiet again. Eren can feel him close by, close to where he sits on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees.

 What is that feeling?

  _What is this?_

 There are things Eren wants to say, but he cannot form the words, and his voice feels far too weak to carry anything at all. He feels pathetic, lost, naked, used, angry. His throat constricts when he feels warm fingers run through his hair, softly, like a breeze. And like a breeze the man is gone a moment later. It’s like he has never been there.

 Eren sits for a long while, until he starts feeling cold. He finds his clothes in the dark. He dresses slowly, trying to ignore how the shadows hover, how they stick to his skin like another layer of sweat. He feels very cold and has started to shiver.

 Eren puts on a light, the desk lamp. The shadows retreat and he feels a little better. On the desk lies his bag; from it he withdraws a blue, weary book.

 The student can do nothing but stare at the cover and hold it so tightly that his fingers start to hurt and he can’t read the title anymore because his sight has turned blurry. Finally it is too much, and he hurls the book, violently, across the room, into the darkness, where he can hear it crash into a bookshelf before falling to the floor with an accusing clatter.

 Eren cannot spend another minute in that world; it has slowly been driving him insane.

 He flees the store, leaving _Metaphysics_ behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Does anybody remember this fic? Well, here's a chapter that's been long in the works. 
> 
> And - I'm sorry.
> 
> (Please talk to me about Levi.)


	9. Fugue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! Trigger warning for homophobia and violence !!

 Eren has made a decision. He goes home that night, intent on telling Mikasa and Armin that decision – to make it known, to make it final.

 He chooses a longer route home, wanting to clear his head, to think new thoughts, because his thoughts are so stagnant, trapped, endlessly repeated, and they have been grating on him, on his sanity; has worn him down for a long time now.

 So he attempts to walk himself to new thoughts, but the dark streets and alleyways have no secret information to disclose, or perhaps he is just not in the right mindset to receive whatever they have to tell. The cool night air does not relinquish any secrets either, but it does clear his mind, makes him feel lighter; and he wants to feel light.

 That night Eren tells Mikasa and Armin that he has given up on the article, that he won't be writing about  _Metaphysics_ for the  _Journal_. Naturally they both want to know why. So Eren tells them the truth: what had happened between him and Ackerman, that he can’t keep seeing the author anymore because it's just not healthy for him.

 “I’m so sorry to hear that, Eren. I knew you were excited about this,” Armin says apologetically, like it is his fault. “I was looking forward to include something about his literature in the _Journal,_ too. To be honest, I feel very disappointed in Ackerman. I thought he would be able to offer us something – something more. Especially after all he said at the House of Literature back then.” Armin stares into his cup of tea. “But it must have been a hard decision for you to make, Eren.” He looks up and smiles sympathetically.

 “I’m pissed,” says Mikasa. She puts down her cup abruptly. “Where is this man’s integrity, anyway?” she demands to know. “I knew it when I first saw him! I knew he was bad company.” She looks to Eren, frowning. “I shouldn’t have encouraged you. I shouldn’t have let you go with him.”  
  
 Eren shakes his head. “I would have gone to him sooner or later anyway, and the same thing would have happened. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I was stupid.” He pauses, eyes digging into the deep grooves in their kitchen table. “I should have seen it. I should have seen what he wanted. I’m an idiot.”

 Mikasa smacks him over the head. “Stop that. The man manipulated you for his own entertainment and sick pleasure. You’re not the one at fault here. It’s that bastard.”

 Armin nods gravely. “She’s right, Eren. You’re not stupid for wanting to believe in him.”

 Eren can see what they are saying, but still; it’s hard to shake the feeling that he is the one who messed up. “Thank you,” he says and attempts a smile. “It hurts a lot, you know? But I guess I expected too much of him. I flew too close to the sun, or whatever.”

 Armin rolls his eyes. Mikasa coughs. “But even though I now know what Ackerman is like, _Metaphysics_ is still very dear to me. I’m grateful to him for writing it.” Eren buries his hands in his hair, tugs at it. “I just don’t get _how_ he can be the one who wrote _Metaphysics._ How can you be so unsympathetic and still write something so magnificent like that? It’s so frustrating!”

 Armin pats him on the shoulder. “Eren, you know very well there’s a difference between the author and his work. That’s elementary.”

 Eren waves him away. “I know, I know. But still… It doesn’t make any sense. It seems hypocritical to me.”

 Mikasa and Armin nods, mutters their agreement.

 “I’ll tell the editorial team tomorrow,” Armin says. “We need to find something else to fill in the slot, but don’t worry,” he adds quickly, “We’ll find something.”

 Eren suddenly feels bad. He looks up. “I’m so sorry, Armin. I don’t want to cause any trouble for you. I’ll work hard to help you guys out.”

 Armin shakes his head dismissively. “No, you’ve got enough as it is with the book store. You’re supposed finish the cataloguing by the end of this week right? You’ve only got a few days left. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of the _Journal_.” Armin smiles, and it feels like everything is all right in the world – but only for a minute.

 Eren nods, grateful. “All right, thank you, Armin. You don’t know how much it means to me.” He sighs. “Just, do me a favour? Don’t tell them why. Just say I’m sick or something, that I can’t finish it on time.”

 “Of course – I won’t tell them.” Armin hesitates. “And Ackerman? Have you told him?”

 Eren shakes his head. “No.” He fixes his eyes on the grooves again, squeezing himself down into them. “Not yet.”

 ____

 Early next morning Eren is back at the store. As Armin had said, there is still much work left to do, and Eren doesn’t want Auruo to lose his job because of him. First thing he does is retrieving the blue, tattered book lying behind a shelf, exactly where he had thrown it the night before.

 Eren stares at it for a long time. He wonders how he should treat it now, and where he should put it. It’s the same book as before… or is it? Perhaps it would read different now.

 He brings it over to his desk, puts it in his bag. He tries not to think of it - how a man and his words could be so contradictory.

 He starts working, and for once he is grateful, as the work is successful in distracting him from things he would rather not be thinking of. All the books upstairs are finally catalogued, but most of the shelves downstairs remain. Auruo is scheduled to come in later that day, and they’ve decided to keep working until after opening hours, which suits Eren just fine.

 Although focused and diligent, Eren is still on edge, waiting for the bell to ring at any time. The author is there, lurking in the back of his mind, and he’s worried he might accidentally summon him if he can’t expel him somehow, which is why, when the bell finally rings, and before Eren can even look up, he knows who it is. Or, he is almost certain. But yes, inevitably, there he is. 

 Levi is standing just inside the door, hands in his black coat. The early morning light filtering through the windows makes the man appear more as a dark shadow than anything of physical form. Eren offers him only a glance, before he turns back to the shelf he is working on, fingers clutching the clipboard he is holding.

 “Hello,” Levi offers. 

 Eren stands still, chart in hand. “Hi.” 

 He doesn't know what else to say, doesn’t have anything he wants to say, and so he focuses on the books in front of him, continuing to scratch down letters, forming them into titles, names of authors.

 Eren can hear Levi move from his spot, coming up behind him; his presence has Eren's hair standing on end. He closes his eyes, wishing the man to be gone.

 “Sorry, I'm a little busy,” he explains. His voice sounds strange. 

 “So busy you can't even look at me?” 

 Eren's eyes are still closed, the back of his eyelids are a deep maroon. He breathes and makes an effort to dispel the tension in his body, and then he turns around to face the author. 

 Levi looks like he always does - or not. When Eren looks closer he feels his stomach turn. The man before him reminds him of the Levi he saw at the House of Literature, months ago. And – Eren is convinced – he has been drinking, even though it is not yet noon. 

 “What do you want?” 

 Levi smiles and it makes Eren feel sick. He cannot forget how Levi had made him feel the night before. And the smile that the author is wearing is not sympathetic. Although Eren had never for one minute thought the author a sympathetic character, he had, foolishly perhaps, hoped. 

 Levi looks Eren in the eye and his smile falters a little. The author moves in on him, and Eren does not have the strength to back away, nor the wit to move his feet.

 “You're angry with me.” 

 Levi is close now. His breath collects on Eren's neck, and the brunet's eyes fall reflexively shut, and all the while a voice inside is screaming at him, begging him to come to his senses.

 Eren wonders, briefly, why it is so intoxicating to be in the author's presence, to be intimate like this, to feel Levi’s hands circle his hips and press close. 

 Eren manages to put his hands on Levi's arms, attempting to push him away, weakly. 

 “Levi – you – people might see.” 

 His words fall on deaf ears as Levi's hands have already found their way up beneath his shirt, fingers searching up his side, and then down to the small of his back where they dip into his jeans. Levi's breath is still hot on his skin, lips caressing his neck, teeth scraping against his collarbone. His breath smells of alcohol. 

 Eren decides then, in a moment of lucidity, that this is beneath him. The anger, the hurt, it wells up within him and is suddenly too much, and he pushes Levi off of himself, roughly, so that the older man stumbles. 

 “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he screams then, face burning in shame and anger, glaring at the author while he fixes his clothing. “After what you did to me yesterday, you think you can just come in here whenever you like and expect–expect...” His voice is thick. “Just what the hell do you want?” 

 Levi eyes him sullenly, like a scolded child, and it looks like he has no intention of answering the question, but Eren is tired.

 “Tell me – _what do you want from me?_ ”

 Something changes in the author then; his composure visibly breaks, and he appears suddenly more clearheaded than before. Something that has been hiding in his eyes all this time comes forth. 

 “You want me to tell you what I want?” Levi snarls, and it's a warning, but it's too late now. Levi is moving toward him again. “Fine, I'll tell you. I want you to fucking wake up. If you have any backbone whatsoever, you should wake the fuck up.” 

 The shelves are digging into Eren's back, but he doesn't realise himself how hard he is pressing himself against them. There's a slow pounding in his head. “What–what are you–?” 

 Levi is still advancing, but there is nowhere left for Eren to go. “I'm talking about how you let your father control you, the way you let him imprison you.” 

 The hostility, the unforgiving words––it's just like the day they first met, but now Levi is telling him things, horrible things, things he does not want to hear. 

 “You hide away in here, playing your part as the obedient son. You don't have any thoughts about what you want to do with your life, and by the time you graduate, the University will have filled your head with so much emptiness that your father can easily drag you off to his Press House.” Levi's voice is calm but cutting. He continues:

 “And the Jaeger legacy will continue, for yet another excruciating generation, killing minds and oppressing culture.” He laughs, as a thought occurs to him. “But I wonder how the Great Grisha will take it when he realises his only son likes to fuck men.” 

 Eren picks up the chart that has slid from his trembling fingers. He almost can't see ahead of him. While his head is lowered like that, Levi continues, all mirth and mockery gone from his voice; it cuts like ice.  

 “You can’t escape being his son, but you can stop him from shaping your identity, affiliating you. And yet you just sit by and let him do it.”

 Levi is looking at him in disgust, but Eren’s eyes are glued to the floor; still––he can hear the poison in his voice. 

 “Get out.”

 Levi opens his mouth but Eren cuts him off. “I said get the fuck out!”

 Eren watches Levi’s jaw flex, but the author doesn’t move from his spot.

 Eren’s mouth feels dry. He thinks he might be sick. All he can think about is how much he _hates_ the man in front of him, and how he can’t stand to look at him any longer. But the author is still there, refusing to leave.

 Levi speaks in a calmer tone. “I’m only trying to help you, Eren. I’m only trying to make you see.”

 “Don’t give me that shit! Don’t act like you fucking care about me!” Eren spits. “The only thing you ever wanted was to toy with me.”

 Levi’s face hardens, but he bypasses what Eren has just said. “You know I’m right, Eren. You’re just scared to admit it.”

 Again Levi’s words are gaining momentum, again he’s approaching Eren.

 “Shut up! You don’t know anything! You don’t know anything about me.” Eren is attempting to keep his voice calm, but it is shaking – he is shaking – and his eyes are filling up with tears. “Just who the fuck do you think you are?”

 Levi is glaring at him, but he does not make an attempt to answer the question, he stops, doesn’t take the final steps to reach the student.

 “You’re ‘trying to make me see’? Do you think I am blind? Do you think I don’t know?” Eren asks him, feeling himself approaching a hysterical state. He is dizzy, and angry, and hot, and his head is swimming. 

 “What difference does it make if you’re not willing to do anything about it?”

 Levi’s voice reaches him, and Eren can see, through the haze, the distaste the author is eying him with. He wonders if it has always been there, only hidden. There has always only been so much of the author visible. Eren thought he had been able to glimpse some of him during the time they spent together, but now he asks himself whether or not it was all just a facade.

 Something happens within him. He feels he is standing at a crossroads – he can go one way or the other. A violent surge of nausea hits him, and he clinging to a shelf to keep from doubling over and heave himself onto the floorboards.

 “I can’t do this,” he hears himself saying. It sounds foreign, like it isn’t him saying it at all. “I was going to tell you, but I’ve decided I’m not going to write a piece for the _Journal_ about _Metaphysics._ ”

 Whatever reaction Eren had expected, it isn’t this. The author is not taken aback; he sneers, almost triumphantly, like he has known all along that it would end like this, and Eren finds himself wishing, in that moment, that he had never read _Metaphysics,_ that he had never met Levi Ackerman.

 “I knew it,” the author says. His voice is flat, devoid of feeling. “I knew you were just another Jaeger.”

 Eren feels cold, nauseous – again he is hit with that signifier and it makes him so angry. Levi couldn’t possibly understand the effect it has on him, unless he does, and he does it out of spite. Eren wouldn’t put that beneath him.

 After this Eren doesn’t know what to say anymore, there are no words left to say, but he wants to hurt Ackerman, he wants to hurt the author as badly as he has hurt him. Before he can do anything stupid, there is a sound, the sound of a bell, and the front door opening. They both freeze; turn their attention to the customer.

 Only it isn’t a customer, it is Grisha Jaeger.

 It’s all Eren can do to keep himself on his feet as he watches Grisha enter the store, and halt as he takes in the situation before him; Levi Ackerman, there, in his store, with his son.

 Levi’s surprise fades quickly, and he turns towards the editor with an unpleasant smile. “Grisha Jaeger. What an honour!” 

 Eren’s stomach has dropped down, far below the floor beneath his feet.

  _This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening._

When Grisha turns his gaze on him he knows he can’t flinch, he can’t look away. His knees are shaking, but somehow he is still standing.

 “Eren, what’s going on here?”

 Grisha voice is like an ice cold shower. Eren opens his mouth, but there is nothing he can say, his mind is blank - there is nothing he can say, ultimately nothing.

 But then Levi speaks, and Eren is filled with dread.

 “I was just paying your son a little visit.”

 Grisha’s eyes linger on his son for a little while longer, as he considers whether or not to acknowledge the other man. As Eren’s muteness persists, slowly Grisha turns to Levi instead. “What business do you have with my son?”

 It looks like Levi is having the time of his life. “Your son has been interviewing me about my work, _Metaphysics._ I think you are familiar with it.” Grisha stares at the author in disgust, but Levi is not finished. “You see, your son, Eren, is very taken with it. Now isn’t that ironic?”

 “Levi!”

 Eren’s voice is shrill, terrified, begging. The author looks at him then, oddly, with a question in his eyes. But his attention is soon back on his sworn enemy, who has so suddenly, and timely, appeared before him.

 “I see you are as low as your work,” is what Grisha says.

 It is strange, but it is apparent that Levi is not immune to Grisha’s words, because his mouth twists nastily, and he does not look like his usual collected self. Eren is still frozen in dread, dread of what Levi might say next, what he might tell his father.

 “Oh, I’m low all right,” Levi laughs and shrugs. He moves towards the exit, passing by Grisha. “Your son is low, too. And you know what else,” he halts by the editor’s side, who is white with rage, unwilling to look at the man beside him. “He’s a great lay.”

 Levi stays to watch the words register with the older man, delighted to see the shock in his eyes, before he brushes past and exits the store. The author does not look at Eren as he leaves.

 Never before in his life has Eren felt more frightened. He stares at his father in fear.

 Grisha is still frozen in shock, livid when his eyes turn upon his son.

 Eren’s heart is beating furiously. He can barely process what has happened, what happened perhaps in the span of five minutes, how his world has been turned upside down, violently, in the span of five minutes, how he has been shaken off and dropped right down, far down into a black pit or a tomb, where he has to face off with the worst monster he has ever known; the one he has feared as long as he can remember, the one that has curbed and denied him at every point in his life – and it was Levi who sacrificed him. And for what?

 Eren can feel how his father’s eyes burn as they see. Eren's dishevelment is apparent; the unbuttoned, crumpled shirt and the marks on his neck. Grisha doesn’t need to ask if Ackerman is telling the truth, there is no need for Eren to come up with an explanation; Grisha sees, he understands. And things are suddenly far worse than they have ever been.

 Grisha unfreezes, fixes his livid eyes on his son. “You lied to me.”

 He approaches and Eren shrinks back, further into the store, but his father follows. “I should have expected this from you – you degenerate.”

 Eren forgets about the step behind him. He falls and he does not have the strength to get back up.

 “Stand up.”

 He almost can’t breathe for the fear. He almost can’t see. He shakes his head, tries to communicate that he can’t; there is no way.

 Eren is gripped by the collar of his shirt, yanked to his feet, on which he stands shakily, not as tall as usual, like he’s been cut off at the knees.

 Grisha may not look like much, but his strikes they sting, like they always have.

 “You are disgusting, a disgrace to the family name. How dare you shame me in this way?”

 Eren summons what little strength he has left and pushes the man away, stumbling, but managing to stay on his feet. He breathes heavily, like he has run a mile. Bravely, defiantly, he meets his father’s gaze. Both his cheeks are burning from being hit and his nose is throbbing. Something runs down his chin; drips to the floor: blood from a split lip.

 “I always knew something was wrong with you ever since you were young. But I won’t tolerate it, Eren.” Grisha raises his voice; it is shaking with fury. “You are the only son I have, the sole heir of Jaeger Press House, and I won’t stand for your degeneracy.” The editor’s hands are balled into violent fists, and they make Eren want to cower, but he forces himself to stand upright, trembling, but upright. “You are never to see that man again, you hear me?”

 The tears have dried on Eren’s face; they aren’t collecting in his eyes anymore. The words hurt, although they shouldn’t. They hurt, but they do not shock him. “You don’t have to worry,” Eren spits. “I’m not going near him again.”

 Grisha is towering, threatening. Eren stands, meeting his father’s glare, feeling thick hatred pumping through his veins.

 “I hope for your sake you won’t.”

 Grisha’s hands are still clenched, and Eren thinks he might hit him again, so he waits, his own hands balled into fists, knuckles aching against his skin, itching for a chance to hurt – and he believes he may actually be able to do it now, for the first time. It is a terrifying thought – what would happen if he did? If he fought back?

 But then his phone is ringing, and the taut wringing expectant moment is gone. His father seems to collect himself at the sound; his tightly wound rage dissipates as he presumably remembers that they are in a public space, where someone can walk in at any minute.

 Eren’s hand is shaking when he picks up the phone. It is Auruo. He says that he’s sorry he’s late but that he’ll be there in about ten minutes; it sounds like he is running, and then he hangs up. All colour drains from Eren’s face when he realises Auruo would have walked right in on them if he had been on time.

 “Auruo will be here in a minute.”

 His father is already fixing his tie and buttoning his jacket. A handkerchief procured from an inner pocket cleans away a small, red streak on the top of his knuckles.

 “Make yourself decent,” Grisha snaps, annoyed by his own lack of caution, but the feeling is nothing compared to the intense rage and disgust he feels for his son, for how he has forced him to act this way, for always being so difficult, for always refusing to listen.

 “Remember what I said Eren,” he says as a final warning before he walks out the door. “Don’t you ever think of shaming me or my name ever again.”

 Somehow Eren is able to function the rest of that day. It shouldn’t be possible, he thinks, but somehow it is. The events of the morning are pushed back, far back, and his body moves, does what he wants it to do, paradoxically, mechanically, methodically.

 When Auruo asks him what has happened to his face, the split lip, the slight swelling, Eren tells him that he was in a fight the night before and Auruo believes it, laughs, because it has happened before; drunken brawls with strangers, or with Jean, that idiot, but most of the time, most of the time, there had been no fight at all, only a lack of teeth.

 They work until Eren feels like he is almost about to drop. The barrier in his mind is breaking, and he can no longer hold onto things; paper slips from his fingers, his hand is shaking so much he can’t lift a cup of coffee to his lips. Auruo suggests they call it a day, coming back early in the morning; perhaps they will be able to wrap things up before the day is over.

 That night Eren doesn’t go home. He doesn’t feel like explaining anything to Mikasa or Armin. He doesn’t feel like anything. Or, he feels too much, but mostly there is pain.

 Eren stands outside of the cemetery. He shouldn’t be there. It’s not allowed. It says so on a plaque beside the gate. Eren has laughed at the odd, archaic phrasing of it before, also thought it absurd that anybody should want to be at a cemetery after dusk anyways, but now he is climbing the gates in the dark, landing on the other side, hard, twisting his ankle.

 He sneaks down the gravelled path in the darkness, not wanting to put on any light for fear of being discovered, but it’s all right; even in the night he can find his way to his mother’s grave easily.

 The grass is damp but he sinks down in front of the cold stone anyway, closing his eyes, breathing, listening; willing the Emptiness to come to him as it only can here. It washes over him, and he feels like maybe it makes him disappear for some time, that it cloaks him like the night never could. Exhaustion catches up with him then, and he lies down.

 “Mother,” he whispers. “I’m so tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sad bean :( 
> 
> There probably won't be an update in a while since I'm currently trying to write my bachelor's thesis!!  
> Let me know what you think :)


	10. To surface, to submerge

 Eren is sitting at a café. He is reading something, annotating it, while every once in a while sipping absentmindedly from a cup of coffee. It's the café where Mikasa works but she is off today. 

 It's crowded, being lunchtime, but Eren is absorbed in the text he is reading. He registers little of his surroundings – which is why he is very confused when there is someone standing next to him calling his name. 

 Eren looks up, disoriented, to see a man he does not recognise. He is tall, blonde, with an amiable smile. 

 “Eren Jaeger, am I right?”

 Eren, thinking the man looks somewhat familiar, but struggling to place him, gives a hesitant but affirmative nod. “I'm sorry to bother you,” the man says, “We've never been formally introduced, but I'm Erwin Smith of Titan Publishing, Levi Ackerman's editor.” 

 He reaches out a hand, which Eren takes, suddenly remembering the man from that time at the House of Literature. “Ah, of course. Nice to meet you,” Eren says, but his own smile is guarded. He puts away the text he has been reading.

 The editor lets go of his hand. “Do you mind if I join you?”

 Eren is a little alarmed. Not only is he wary of whatever the editor might have to say to him, but he is also not comfortable being seen in public with the man. Eren throws what he hopes is a discreet glance out across the teeming shop, before deciding to offer the editor a seat. 

 Erwin sits down, smiling a comforting smile. “Thank you. I am so glad I was to run into you. I'm sorry to disturb you like this, but there is something I want to ask you.”

 Eren nods, signifying that it’s okay. He hopes the tension in his body isn’t making him come off as rude or cold, but he can’t help being nervous.

 The editor sits back in his chair. He fixes his blue eyes on Eren, looking determined. “From what I've gathered, Levi has been spending some time with you lately.” He pauses, waiting for some kind of affirmation. When Eren gives him a hesitant nod Erwin continues. “Right, so I was wondering if you by any chance happen to know where he is?”

 Eren blinks. “What?”

 Erwin sighs, suddenly looking very tired. “I haven't been able to contact him for some time now, and I'm worried about him.” 

 Eren doesn't know what to say. Levi – gone? 

 “I - I don't know. I haven't talked to him in a while now, either.” 

 Erwin nods, slumping a little in his seat. “I see.” The man throws a look out of the window.

 It is a bleak day: milky clouds above, and mist hanging outside in the greenery of the park that is opposite the café. There is a blackbird perched on the branch of a birch tree. Eren can see the bird open its beak in a song, but from where they are sitting it is a silent song. Erwin is watching the blackbird, too.

 Erwin speaks, “Well, he'll appear when he's ready, I hope.”

 There is something about the way Erwin says it that makes Eren curious. “Is this… something he does often?”

 Erwin shrugs, “Every now and then.” He turns his attention back to Eren. “Levi has good times and bad times, like all of us. But I think his bad times are something else.” 

 Eren gives a non-committal nod, his neck feeling stiff. “Okay.”    

 “I've known him since we were kids, but I still don't get him,” Erwin admits. “Sometimes I wouldn’t hear from him or see him for days on end, so I was used to his disappearances, but this one time, when we were 15, he dropped completely off the map.” Erwin frowns. “He was gone for years and nobody knew whether he was dead or alive. His parents were torn. But then, only last year, he was back.” The editor pauses, perhaps recalling the time he first saw Levi again. He continues, “Turned out he’d been on the continent for all those years, living the life of a vagrant.” Erwin shakes his head, still frowning, still struggling to come to terms with the facts.

 “Although it sounds romantic I doubt it was...” He sits up in his chair and meets Eren’s gaze directly, imploringly, so that Eren wants to look away. “So he disappears, I know that – it's just his nature – but he’s been in a strange state lately. I mean, not his usual strangeness – different, a little less in control of himself. I’m worried about him,” the editor concludes.

 They sit there in silence for a while, Eren deciding what to do with this new information. He feels awkward because, clearly, Erwin is expecting something from him – whatever he thinks Eren’s and Levi’s relationship to be, he is severely mistaken. As if Eren has any influence on Levi at all, as if anybody could somehow influence a man like that, so hard and unyielding.

 The Levi Erwin is describing, Eren has trouble feeling sympathy for him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” he says, his voice strange. He repeats, “I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

 Erwin gives him a thin smile. “That’s all right. I figured it was a long shot.”        

 While listening to Erwin talk, Eren has forgotten that it is not ideal for him to risk being seen talking to the most prominent editor of Titan Publishing in public. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortably, hoping that their conversation is over, but Erwin, is not done yet.

 “You’re a lit student, right?”

 “Ah, yes.”

 Erwin’s tone is neutral. “At the University?”

 Eren nods, and Erwin smiles, to himself, mostly, as if his suspicions have been confirmed. Eren does not like where the conversation is heading. He realises that he can get up and leave any time he wants, but he doesn’t. Because, against his better judgement, talking to Erwin isn’t as scary as it should be.

 “Do you want to work in publishing?”

 Eren hesitates only for a moment before answering, “Yes.”

 “With your father?”

 It’s the natural question to ask, and honestly, Eren should be used to it by now, but the question still procures a feeling of nausea in him. Erwin is perceptive. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m being presumptuous.”

 Eren makes a face and pushes past the feeling. He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s okay. I don’t know yet, is all. I don’t like thinking about my future, you know?”

 Erwin smiles, and nods like he understands. Maybe he does. He directs his gaze to the window, searching, presumably, for the blackbird, but it is no longer there.

 “Well,” his eyes are back on Eren, different now. “We are always on the lookout for promising new editors, so don’t hesitate to contact us when you finish your studies.”

 Eren, partly in shock, is silent.

 “You… you would take me on?” he manages to force out, disbelievingly.

 “I’ve seen what you and your team have been able to do with the _Journal._ Considering the limitations that are put upon you, I think your work is impressive.”

 “Oh, uhm,” Eren stutters. “Thanks.”

 “Again, I’m sorry for imposing on you like this.” Erwin stands up, getting ready to leave. They shake hands again. “Thank you for your time,” says the editor, and Eren has to keep himself from smiling at the formality of it all.    

 “That’s all right. It was nice meeting you.”

 “And you.”

 Erwin turns to leave, but then there is something he remembers. “That’s right. What do you think about the panel discussion next week?”

 “Panel discussion?”

 Eren’s confusion seems to surprise Erwin. “You haven’t heard? They’re holding a panel discussion between your father and Levi – next week at the House of Literature. I think,” he adds, “it was your father who initiated it.”

 Eren shakes his head, slowly, a sudden feeling of numbness settling over him. “No. I haven’t heard.”

 Erwin is frowning. “I don’t like it,” he says. “I know Levi has accepted, but I don’t think he should do it.” After a pause, “I have no idea what he’s thinking, since he’s gone and disappeared… I hope I can get to him before the discussion. I don’t want him to do anything reckless.”

 Eren’s body is stiff. He tries not to show any emotion when he gives a short nod, to acknowledge the editor’s concern. “Good luck with that,” he says, and he doesn’t mean it to be sardonic, but it comes out that way. Despite this, or maybe because of it, the look Erwin gives him before leaving is sympathetic.

 A panel discussion, huh…

 He hasn’t seen Levi in over two weeks. And he does not have the desire to see him. Not really. Not after what happened in the bookstore. Not after what he did.

 Eren’s eyes are drawn to the window, to the trees in the park. They do a futile search; the blackbird has not returned.

 Then Eren takes out the text he had been reading before Erwin had shown up – _Metaphysics_. He is reading it anew. _Metaphysics._

 It is not the same book he read back then. Not the same blue book he found in a tiny, forbidden bookstore all those months ago. He has changed, and so the novel has changed too.

 Eren opens it up again, continuing where he left off. He clutches a pencil in his hand. With a strange fervour he writes in the margins, tiny, pencilled letters tucked close to the harsh, printed ones.

 ______

 One day Eren is on his way home. He has been walking around the city for hours, but the evening is approaching, bringing with it suspicious-looking clouds, and he is hungry and a little tired.

 Walking has become therapeutic for him, in a way it didn’t use to be before. He’ll take the tram or the bus to quieter areas of the city, residential areas mostly, where he can walk in peace. It’s nice picking out routes, walking down foreign streets, finding his way, or sometimes losing it, in the labyrinth of the city. When Eren returns he feels more clear headed.

 Walking makes it easier to think. If he stays still for a longer period of time, heavy thoughts crowd together in his mind, weighing him down. But if he walks, the thoughts become lighter, easier to carry, as it were. Actually, the thoughts seem to grow their own feet: they walk off, without his conscious help. It helps him fall asleep at night, when his head is sufficiently empty.

 Eren has not been to the cemetery since that night two weeks ago. The deep slumber he fell into that night, beside the cold stone, frightens him now.

 He had woken in the small hours of morning, chilled to the bone, and everything had been so quiet and dark he thought he had woken for the last time. He had scrambled back over the gate before anyone could discover him.

 So Eren doesn’t go the cemetery anymore. He cannot do that to himself, nor to his mother.

 He will walk other places. Bright places. Shiganshina is a big city, after all.

 He reads and he walks. He drinks too much coffee. He writes. He speaks only to Mikasa and Armin. Then he walks some more.

 During such a walk, all absorbed in thought, Eren is not prepared for anyone to recognise him, because he, himself, is moving away, towards something else – something that is not yet him. He is disparate, unassembled, so how can he be recognised?

 That is why it is a shock when he hears somebody calling his name.

 Eren looks up, returning to the present. He continues his trek over the grassy ground of the park, not wanting to cease his progress.

 Jean is coming at him from his left. He is approaching quickly, speeding up when he sees that Eren is showing no sign of stopping. “Eren! Hey!”

 Eren, however, is not in the mood for Jean at that very moment, arguably he is never in the mood for Jean, so he averts his eyes and keeps walking as if he hasn’t seen him, although it is painfully obvious that he has. Eren considers flat out running away, but decides that that would be a little too pathetic, even for him. Inevitably, Jean catches up and he isn’t happy when he does.

 “Oi, what gives, Eren!?” he huffs, a hand pulling Eren’s shoulder so that he is forced to stop and face him. Jean is looking at him like he thinks Eren has gone crazy, which he very well might have. 

 “Hi, Jean,” Eren says straight-faced, as if he hasn’t just openly tried and, miserably, failed to blank him. Eren doesn’t know what else to say, and as he stands there looking at Jean, he starts to feel ashamed.

 They haven’t seen each other for weeks. Eren doesn’t know what excuse Armin has made up to explain his absence from their meetings, but whatever it is, just looking at Jean now, Eren can tell that Jean is not satisfied with it.

 Jean is angry. Usually Eren would seize any opportunity to annoy Jean, but not this time.

 “Where the hell did you disappear to? We haven’t seen you for ages!” Jean fixes him with a scowl while gesticulating with his hands.

 Eren looks away. “I've been – I've been busy in the book store.”

 “Really.”

 “I'm not lying,” he bites out, because, technically, he’s not.

 “No? Then what the fuck _are_ you doing?”

 Eren is quiet.

 Jean huffs, clearly out of patience, and Eren has to wonder how long he has been searching for him. “You don't make any sense! First you're all excited, and you persuade us into something that's fucking nuts, and then you're backing out? You're the one who got us into this mess but you're not participating? Where’s the logic in that? Our asses are on the line here because of you… What the hell, dude?”

 Eren flinches, guilt gnawing at him. “I'm sorry, Jean, but I —“ 

_But I what?_

 Jean, however, is sharper than Eren has ever given him credit for. He eases off his attack, and eyes Eren with concern. “Eren, what the hell is going on?” 

 The way Jean looks at him then, so earnestly, is for some reason overwhelming to Eren, and he finds himself unable to meet his eyes. He and Jean have always been fighting, every chance they got – maybe because they are so much alike. And Eren, most of the time, can't stand himself.

 Eren can't deal with this, this earnestness, not from Jean. He’d rather the other boy throw a punch at him, or throw one himself. He waves Jean off and turns away, saying, inadequately, “It's nothing. I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused.”

 “Hey.” Something in Jean's voice makes him turn back around. “Do you need to talk?” 

 Eren laughs nervously, feeling decidedly awkward and disturbed by this sudden expression of sincerity coming from his friend. “I'm totally fine, Jean.” 

 “Yeah right.” Jean snorts, walking up to him, confrontational-like. “Let's go somewhere so we can talk.” 

 Eren is backing away, almost panicking now. He's shaking his head, indicating that he needs to go, but Jean is grabbing his arm and dragging him bodily out of the park. 

 There's a coffee shop across the street and Jean hauls him inside. They find a table in the back, where they sit down (Eren reluctantly) with a cup of coffee each.

 Eren can tell that Jean is trying to be a good friend and he appreciates it. It's a little funny, if he’s being honest, Jean attempting to be nice. It is obvious that Jean feels awkward about the whole situation, too, which would explain why his manner is so brusque, as if to mask his actual concern for Eren. Eren hates to admit it, but it’s sort of endearing.

 Jean says, “So, what's got your panties in a twist? Is it that author — Ackerman?”

 Eren gulps down a scalding sip of coffee, trying to ignore the burning on his tongue as he struggles to come up with a response. He decides to tell the truth.

 “Yes.” 

 “I knew it.” 

 The smug look on Jean's face is aggravating. It makes Eren scrunch up his nose. “How could you _know_ that?”

 Jean rolls his eyes. “It's obvious.” 

 Eren huffs. “How is it obvious?” 

 “Well, for those of us who have been around you for the last few months, it's plain that you admire the guy. A lot. And now you've been seeing him and talking to him regularly,” he shrugs. “I'd be worked up about it, too, if it were me.” 

 It's a small gesture, but Eren feels a pang of gratitude towards Jean for that. 

 Eren takes another cautious sip of his coffee, which is still too hot.

 “So, what exactly is the problem?” Jean continues. “Are you banging him?” 

 Eren hates that the question makes him flinch. He puts his cup down slowly, before admitting, hesitantly, “We have had sex, yes.” For one reason or another, it is much easier to talk to Jean about this than anyone else. 

 “Ok, so?”

 “So?” Eren is confused. 

 “So, what's the problem?”

 Eren snorts. “You're an idiot.” 

 Jean is grinning, and he doesn't look offended at all. He says, “But seriously, though." 

 Eren exhales. Is he really going to confide in Jean? Of all people? Now? Without any alcohol? It seems impossible to him, but he's already opening his mouth. 

 “I'm afraid of him.”

 Jean suddenly looks serious. “Is he hurting you?” 

 “Ah, no. No, he's not.” Eren pauses, bites his lip. How should he explain this? 

 “I'm... very attracted to him, but I'm scared of what he might make me do.” 

 “Um, against your will?”

 “No! Ah, you don't understand.” 

 Eren buries his face in his hands. He knew it would be impossible to explain. Especially to somebody like Jean. What was he thinking.

 “Then,” comes Jean's voice, “you mean he might make you do something that you actually want to do?”

 Eren looks up. _Something that I want to do_.  “Yeah,” he realises. 

 “Call me crazy, but that sounds like a good thing to me.” 

 Eren stares into the black pit of his coffee cup. “Yeah, but it's not that easy.” He looks back at Jean again, who's got a confused expression. “And besides,” his fingers are wrapped tightly around the scalding porcelain, “I don't trust him.” 

 Jean is squinting at him, obviously trying his best to keep up. “Why?”

 “Because he’s using me.”

 Jean is silent. It looks like he's struggling with a difficult math problem. His face clears up, pieces fitting together. “Oh, because of your father?”

 Eren nods.

 “You think he gets some sort of weird kick from being with you?” 

 Eren nods again. 

 The revelation has Jean quieting down. “Damn,” he says. “That's kinda fucked up.” 

 To hear someone else saying that is, strangely enough, a relief. Seeing it through the eyes of Mikasa, Armin, and now Jean, he can see that it _is_ fucked up. 

 “He did something… really bad. It shocked me… I haven’t seen him in since then.”

 Jean hums, nodding slowly, his foot tapping out a rhythm on the floor while deep in thought. He turns his eyes back on Eren, narrowing them accusingly.

 “Tell me, why did you want to be involved with him in the first place?” 

 “Um, I...” the brunet needs to stop and take a moment. “I mean, I admired him? I was interested in him – in his literature. I... found something in Metaphysics.” 

 “What did you find?”

 Eren shudders at the bizarre déjà vu; the smell of lilacs return to him, the feeling of warm lips against his. It nearly makes him laugh.  

 “Grisha,” he hears himself saying. “My father. He is killing me. Or more precisely, he's making me kill myself." 

 Jean is struck dumb at that, but it's all right; there is nothing for him to say, and Eren is not expecting him to. Now, Eren is thinking out loud, suddenly articulating thoughts he has never dared to before. “But _Metaphysics_  taught me I don't have to kill myself. I don't have to kill myself for anyone – not for my father, and not for Ackerman.”

_I won't let them disarm me._

 Jean hesitates before he prompts, “So…?”

 “So, I want to use _Metaphysics_ and what it taught me. And I need to learn to separate the author from their work. I thought I knew that... I can use _Metaphysics,_ but I don’t have to deal with Levi. I got too hung up on him. It blinded me.”

 Jean nods like he understands. “Sounds good to me. So what’re you gonna do?”

 “I’ve been thinking a lot lately – and writing. I think I have some ideas. For the _Journal,_ I mean. I was,” he adds sheepishly, “eventually going to come to you guys with them. It’s just that I’ve been in a bad place lately. A really bad place.” He doesn’t look at Jean when he says it.

 Jean doesn’t know what to say to that, but his eyes are filled with regret, and it’s heartfelt, Eren can tell. It is rare to see Jean like this, and Eren does not like it. When he does speak, Jean is subdued. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I didn’t know. Any of this”

 Eren shrugs, attempting to sound light-hearted. “It’s all right. You had no way of knowing. And… I’m sorry, too.” He smiles. “I’ll make it up to you, though,” he says, before Jean can say anything else. “With my awesome ideas for the piece I’m writing.”

 ______

 So Eren is writing it after all. And he’s doing it properly this time. This time around, he thinks he might get it right.

 He submerges himself in the text, and the text is submerged in him. There is an exchange there, a dialogue between him and the words, more so than it was before. Now he is not merely a receptacle for the text, now he helps create it. And that is how he can understand it better than he did before.

 When he closes his eyes at night he can see the colours of _Metaphysics_ : cobalt blue and stirring shades of violet.

 Things have been brought sharply into focus; they are made easier to examine, and more painful, too. Although Eren is loath to admit it, he knows that Levi has something to do with this. When Levi had told him it was time that he woke up, and when Eren only a little later, realised just how close he had been to never waking again – realising just how drawn he had been to nothingness – something had changed in him.

 Eren does not want to be defined by another; he does not want to sleep forever in a dark tomb – but he had been dangerously close.

 Eren has found something in _Metaphysics._ Something new. He wants to show it to the author, because Eren thinks there is a possibility that the author himself does not know that it is there at all, hiding in his forest of words. Eren wants to reveal it to him. Brutally.

 But the writer is gone.

 One night Eren finds himself at _Nowhere._ He doesn’t expect the barkeeper to recognise him, but she tells him as he is sitting down that, “He’s not here. He hasn’t been here for weeks.”

 Eren stays for a while anyway, relieved and upset.

 Eren knows where the writer’s flat is situated, but it is impossible to go there. Contacting him by phone is also impossible. Going to _Nowhere_ is all he can do, for now at least.

 Eren has walked a lot lately, but now he needs to pause and wait, because something is approaching, and he is not sure how he should greet it.

 The panel discussion.

 In a few days time Grisha Jaeger and Levi Ackerman will meet at the House of Literature for a discussion.

 It is the final battle – the answer to Levi’s challenge; the challenge latent in his _Metaphysics,_  and the outspoken challenge, declared by the author himself _._

 It is about to happen. It is as if the city is holding its breath in anticipation, only daring to whisper about it at night, the susurrus infusing Eren’s violet-blue dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long wait - I'm sorry about that (I'm working too much this summer).
> 
> Alternative chapter title could be "Quiet before the storm," maybe? 
> 
> Let me know what you think ! :)


	11. Take the night off

 Eren has not been to the House of Literature since the day of Levi Ackerman’s speech. The day that they met. That was early spring, when the wind still carried traces of winter. After everything that has happened since then, Eren no longer feels the same way about the institution, the University. He can see them now for what they are – an elongation of his father’s power.

 The place is even more packed now than back then, and no wonder – the president of the biggest, most influential press house in the country versus the most controversial writer of the decade. It is bound to get heated, is what they are all thinking.

 Eren is nervous. Mikasa and Armin are there next to him, though, and it helps. Although they arrived early, most of the seats are taken, so they are forced to find somewhere to sit on the steps to the left. They have to press themselves against the wall whenever somebody pushes past.

 There are three red armchairs placed on the stage: one for the chairwoman, one for his father, and one for the author.

 Eren is agitated. It is almost like the day of the reading, only not quite. Now that he has gotten to know the author, he thinks that he can, to some degree, know what to expect from him. Or, on second thought, maybe not…

 Ackerman and Grisha, they have met, briefly, and although the meeting must have incensed them both, the hate that they evidently hold for one another is mostly based on what the other has written. What Ackerman knows of Grisha he knows through his editorials and reviews, his reputation and his presence; his very influence that manifests itself throughout the city. Levi Ackerman’s _Metaphysics_ is a response to and a critique of everything Grisha stands for, everything the editor perpetuates, everything he believes in. Because Levi Ackerman hates everything that Grisha Jaeger is responsible for.

 Eren Jaeger hates it too.

 Eren Jaeger has hated it for as long as he can remember, only it used to be a hate unarticulated, undefined. Something heavy and smouldering that he carried with him ever since childhood. It has been brought to the surface now, burning bright. Eren brought it to the surface himself, with a little help – the help of a language that is, well, metaphysical. Now it is a clean flame, shed of all ambiguity.

 As Eren sits there, thrumming with nervous anticipation, he thinks, _It’s time._

It’s about time to finish this. What he wants is a clear, decisive conclusion.          

 In that moment something happens on stage. Grisha appears, talking casually with someone who seems to be the chairwoman. Scattered applause sounds in the auditorium and now Eren starts to feel really nervous.

 Grisha and the interviewer settle into their seats. The third chair is still unoccupied. Seeing it, there is a sinking feeling in Eren’s stomach. A heavy foreboding. Someone – Mikasa or Armin – gives his arm a comforting squeeze.

 After some excruciating minutes, the woman reaches for a microphone. She tells them they will begin shortly, that they are still waiting for Ackerman to arrive. The empty chair next to them stands there mockingly.

 “He’ll be here soon,” someone – Mikasa or Armin – whispers.

 Eren nods; forces his breath to steady as he tells himself there is no reason to panic, not yet. Ackerman is late, so what? He’ll be here any second now. The author had been late at the reading, too. He likes a late entrance. He likes to torment people. But, as Eren glances at his father on stage, he can see how a satisfied smile is slowly growing on his lips, and it makes it increasingly harder for Eren to stay collected.

 The minutes go by, agonizingly slowly, and still there is no author. The audience is becoming restless. Grisha looks content. Self assured. He occupies his seat as if it were a throne.

 That is when Eren catches sight of Erwin Smith. He is standing next to the stage, his whole manner agitated, expression pained. It doesn’t suit a man like Erwin at all. Seeing him like that makes Eren feel even worse, because Erwin, evidently, has no idea where the author is either.

 It doesn’t make any sense. The author’s absence is absurd. There is no way Levi would give up this opportunity where he can finally go head to head with Grisha… would he?

 The time has finally come. Grisha has stepped up to the challenge. _This is it._

 But the challenger is not here.

 Slowly, the auditorium fills until there is room for no more, and people are turned away at the door. The level of excitement and expectation that fills the room makes Eren’s head hurt and his chest tighten with anxiety. He catches the tail end of agitated whispers floating through the auditorium, and he is starting to feel sick.

 The debate is overdue. Eren can tell the chairwoman is putting on a brave face, chatting casually with Grisha, but she is constantly checking the time and throwing a look behind her at someone back stage. She apologises, yet again, and announces that there is some delay, but that the author should be there soon.

 After twenty minutes, however, it is clear that Ackerman is not coming.

 Eren cannot stand to be there any longer; the noise of too many people, the heat of too many people, thinking and whispering; the smug look on his father’s face. Eren feels a terrible burning shame.

 Mikasa is saying something to him, but it doesn’t register. The place is stifling and Eren needs to get out.

 He rises, struggling down the stairs that are occupied by countless others. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he mutters, but it goes unheard. He tries not to step on anybody, but it’s impossible. As he forces his way through, people scowl at him.

 Just before Eren reaches the door he looks toward the stage one last time.

 Grisha has noticed him; triumphant eyes are following his retreat. Eren knows what he is thinking.

 Eren pushes open the door, desperate to escape, vowing that he will never set foot in that place ever again. The door falls shut behind him, sealing off the buzz from the auditorium. Suddenly it seems very quiet.

 Eren had hoped the panel discussion would mean something – something monumental. He had hoped that it would settle something once and for all. Eren had longed to see someone challenge his father, to face off with him – topple him. And now, the only person he had thought capable of doing just that had withdrawn…

 The panel debate had not been final, as it should have been. It had settled nothing. Nothing had changed. Ultimately, everything is as it was.

 Where to now?

 Helplessly, Eren feels a strange sense of disorientation slowly creeping in over him. It carries with it a numbness that he is prone to succumb to… But – no. He doesn’t want to go back there, to that state.

 “Eren?” Armin and Mikasa are next to him. “Are you okay?”

 Eren blinks, the feeling retreating even as he looks at their concerned faces. Replacing it is a warm burst of love for his friends. He nods. “I’m fine,” although it is far from true. “I need to find him,” he says. “I need to end this.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “Positive.”

 It doesn’t look like they want to let him go, but they stay, watching until he is out of sight.

 Outside he happens upon the editor, Erwin Smith, who is on his phone, tapping his foot nervously. When the man catches sight of the student, he let’s out a shout, and hangs up immediately.

 “I’m going to see him,” Eren says before Erwin has the chance to say anything.

 The editor sends him a grave look. “I’ve been to his flat several times but I don’t think he’s been there for weeks,” he says. “I still haven’t heard from him. Not a word.”

 Eren suppresses the anxiety that slowly starts to build inside him at those words. Somewhere, in his mind, a door is beginning to close, and he is on the wrong side of it.

 “I had a feeling he wouldn’t show up,” Erwin continues, and Eren can’t bear the look on his face as he says it. "I knew this was a bad idea from the beginning."

 “I’m going to see him,” Eren repeats, voice hard. He walks past the editor, who doesn’t say anything else, and Eren is grateful for that. Erwin watches silently as the student joins the grey evening, eventually disappearing down the street.

 Eren sets out, steps certain, steady on the asphalt, without looking back at the white stone building, modestly ornamented, with a sign on the front that reads, _The House of Literature_ ; a symbol of elitism and power.

 His destination is an old brick building, where he has been once before. It would be quicker to take the tram there, but Eren walks.

 When he arrives he needs to wait for someone, coming or going, to open the gate. Eren waits for twenty minutes, at least, awkwardly placed on the pavement. When someone finally appears, he gives them a friendly nod, and slips in before the gate can close behind them. Eren enters the building, climbing the stairs to the very top, where there is only one flat, only one door, disconcertingly white. His back against the opposite wall, he rests. Waiting for the courage to knock on the door.

 It’s been almost a month now since Eren saw him.

 He is not exactly angry. Though, when examining his emotional state closer, he thinks it may tip over into anger very quickly.

 He feels regret, a desperate kind of loss. He had been so close to attaining something that he was promised, only for it to be taken from him the very moment it should have become his.

 The path that Eren had envisioned so vividly the past few weeks, after re-reading and re-thinking, now seems harder to follow. The feeling of disorientation returns and Eren is faltering. In spite of this, he is stepping toward the door ahead of him, which seems to be the only direction left to go, even though the white of its paint is glaring uninvitingly at him. Eren hesitates, before knocking.

 Knock. Knock. Knock.

 The sound is hollow in the narrow corridor.

 Eren waits but there is no answer. He knocks again, harder.

 A long white quiet stares at him…

 There is something that Eren has been thinking about for some time now, and something that Erwin had not said explicitly, but which was implied heavily in his words. It has been there at the back of Eren’s mind, but he hasn’t felt the need nor the wish to consider it seriously: it is possible that there is no one on the other side of the door. It is possible that the author is no longer in the city. That he has been gone for a long time now already, without anybody knowing.

 Still Eren remains, knocking on a closed door. In the impressive silence of the old brick building, Eren waits.

 Then, feeling desperate, he tries the door handle, and to his surprise, the door swings open.  

 The flat is nothing like he remembers it.

 Although never tidy in the slightest sense, Eren had once thought it to have some sort of system to it, but now, standing on the threshold looking in, it is nothing but a complete mess. It is not the same place where he spent that heated night: trembling, balancing on a knife’s edge, on the verge of release.

 The books are still there, along with papers scattered on the floor, but they are not in neat piles anymore, and now an assortment of trash is mixed in, too; various take out containers, bottles, newspapers… It is a chaotic space, which, upon seeing it, makes Eren feel shameful. It is an open nerve. To lay his eyes upon it is an unspeakable invasion of privacy.

 Standing there in the doorway, Eren contemplates running away, to turn his back on the world that lies beyond, because he does not know what he will find there, and if he will like whatever it is.

 He closes his eyes, and before another thought can cross his mind, Eren is stepping over the threshold, and for a short moment he is strangely surprised that his feet connect with a hard surface, that he is not plunging into nothingness. But there is some resistance, as if he is walking through a barrier, so he stops, hesitates, wonders if he should proceed. Is it a violation to enter? Is he welcome here?

 The air is stale. Heavy. Eren sucks it into his lungs and dives into the gloaming.

 He shuts the door behind him and listens, for anything, but it is dead silent.

 Eren opens his mouth, about to call out the author’s name, but finds that he can't. It occurs to him that he's scared to say anything in this silence. What if there is no answer? And what if there is?

 Slowly he makes his way through the mess, but the lights are out and the blinds are down, so it's difficult to manoeuvre. He reaches a window covered by tight-lipped blinds and yanks them open to let a grey light spill through; it makes the flat appear more dingy and he instantly regrets it. 

 In the light he can see that the bedroom door is open. He moves towards it as slowly as possible. Eren halts by the opening, peering into the dusky room. On the bed lies a huddled form. Still. 

 Upon seeing it, a painful anxiety pierces his heart. But there is relief, too.

  _He is still here._

 Eren opens the blinds in the bedroom, too, but only slightly, just so that he can see what he's doing. He turns back to see the grey light splay on the author’s alarmingly pale face. The man looks sick. His breathing is heavy and his brows are knit together in a frown. 

 Eren’s voice is fragile. “Levi?” 

 He is standing by the bedside. The writer’s face is clammy to the touch; his black fringe is sticking to his forehead. Eren brushes it away, not sure why. The writer is not responding.

 Eren shakes his shoulder, attempts to make his voice louder, less porous. “Levi.”

 Slowly, the author opens his eyes, still frowning, deeply pained or concerned. He blinks, confused, eyes focusing on the student.

 “Eren,” the writer’s voice is hoarse. He looks terrified, eyes going wide as he realises who it is standing before him. Eren doesn't know what to say. He stares. 

 The writer is wearing a dirty t-shirt, and a pair of black boxers. It doesn’t look, or smell, like he has had a shower in a while. On the bedside table sits an empty whiskey bottle. 

 “Are you okay?” Eren says then.

 Levi collects himself, avoids Eren’s eyes. Ashamed. He looks so vulnerable it's painful. The author doesn’t answer the student; instead he reaches for the covers, bunched by his feet, and sheathes himself in them. He twists his body around to present Eren with his back. Eren is still, staring at the man’s shoulder blades.

 After some time the author’s voice sounds in the room, hoarse and sore, like it has been scrubbed raw with sandpaper. “Why are you here?” 

 “You didn't show up to the panel debate.”

 Outside, down in the street, Eren hears the tell-tale sound of the blue, snakelike tram drawing nearer; the blinds rattle, like a chattering of teeth. Eren holds his breath and listens as it passes by. Finally the blinds fall to rest. 

 Eren’s tone is accusatory. “Why didn't you show?”

 Levi lies very quietly, like he has fallen asleep, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away. 

 Eren's hands are shaking. He tries to keep the tremors out of his voice, but is unsuccessful. “You called me a coward, but what are you?” 

 Again, a long silence. The air here is heavy, and it is getting heavier with each breath he takes. Levi is immobile. 

 “I'm tired, Eren.” It is a hoarse whisper, barely.

 Eren’s body is stiff, heart very cold. The sound of Levi's voice, it incenses him. A cool, furious feeling rushes through his body, and he doesn't know what to do, what to say. 

 Because it is shocking to see the author like this, reduced to such a state. He's not supposed to be like this. He's supposed to be invulnerable, unstoppable — victorious. But here he is — hiding away, defeated. 

 “What are you talking about?” Eren's hands ball up into fists. His voice is definitely shaking now. “You said you were going to take down my father.” 

 Eren's eyes become watery, and Levi's form blurs so that it looks like he is frozen beneath a blanket of snow.

 “I'm sorry, Eren. I can't save you. You need to do that yourself.” 

 The mound of snow convulses; Levi turns to face him. His face is still shockingly pale, almost grey, and his forehead is shining with perspiration. Levi's eyes are dilated, black holes in his face, and it frightens Eren. Yet, the author looks sincere —apologetic — and Eren has never seen him wearing an expression like that before. This sincerity, this rawness – it stuns him.

 “I'm a hypocrite, Eren. I'm an alcoholic and a hypocrite.” The writer is closing his eyes, as if he is about to fall asleep. “I'm sorry for how I’ve treated you,” he murmurs, “for letting you down…”

 Wiping his face in front of Levi would have made Eren feel pathetic at any other time, but right now it’s okay, because Levi is a mess, too.

 How peculiar, this bond: to feel so significantly, impossibly connected to another person, and yet remaining complete strangers to one another.

 What is Levi? What does Levi signify? A peril and an opportunity – still? No. Not in this moment. In this moment he does not signify anything – he is merely human. He was always merely human. It took seeing him in this state to lift him off of the pedestal Eren had built for him.

 Levi had used him, but, Eren, hadn’t he used Levi, too?

 Eren had constructed an image of the author that fit to his own narrative, and he had held him responsible when he failed to perform the role that Eren had wanted him to play. Ashamed, Eren hides his face in his hands.

 Levi Ackerman was never fleeting or incongruous, or any of those things that Eren used to think before. On the contrary, the man has a form, a clear form. What Eren can see now is how the writer cloaks himself. Levi is a man inside a chaos of signs and signifiers – a hedgehog that is curled in on itself, with spines protruding to protect the creature, the self inside. But now Eren can see him – the thing inside. Eren can see now how scared Levi is, how vulnerable.

 “I’m sorry,” Eren whispers into his hands. “I didn’t know. The alcohol – my mum – she, too…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, trails off, assumes that Levi will understand.

 “I’m tired.” The writer is an echo of himself. “I want to die.”

 The words are so devoid of life they make Eren go cold. He comes out of hiding, dares to look at Levi whose eyes have shut in turn, as if he is dead already.

 Eren’s heart jolts in his chest, painfully – a protest. “Don’t say that – don’t ever say that. You don’t mean it.” His throat feels raw.

 Levi welds his eyes shut against Eren’s words, like he cannot endure them.

 Eren’s knees connect with the floor; it is cold like the rest of the flat. He reaches for one of Levi’s hands, kisses the author’s lips, which are warm and reassuring, although they taste bitter and of alcohol.

 Pulling away, Levi’s eyes are open and confounded. He stares at the student, until his brows contract. He jerks his hand from Eren’s and turns his back to him. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

 Eren shakes his head, although Levi can’t see him. There is no way Eren can leave now. “I may be an idiot, but I’m not leaving.”

 He gets up, finds a chair and pulls it over to the bedside. The tram runs by again, the blinds chatter. Silence. Eren’s lips are still wet.

 Eren stays, staring at Levi’s back, and he is certain, almost certain, that he is doing the right thing. He sits there, in the grey silence, for he does not know how long. Levi is still frozen beneath the sheets.

 “You lied,” Eren says at some point, assuming that Levi is still conscious. “You told me once that you live near the cemetery, that there’s a shortcut, but you live nowhere near it. Why would you lie about something like that?”

 Eren can see Levi drawing a deep breath, but the man remains silent. He has almost given up on getting an answer when the author finally speaks up. “When I ran into you that time I had just been to visit the grave of my parents, much like yourself.”

 A cold breeze finds its way in through the open window, caresses Eren’s and Levi’s hair in turn. Eren waits. Levi continues, haltingly, frequently stopping and starting again, as if he is unsure how he should use his voice. Somehow the sentences seem awkward.

 “They died a year ago. A letter reached me. Don’t know how, I never told anyone where I was. They had already been dead for six months or so then. Already buried. I came back, to collect the inheritance. Then I stayed. No particular reason.” Levi breathes. “If they were still alive, I’d still be on the continent; homeless, miserable, broke; senseless from drink.” He coughs, or maybe it’s a laugh. “Not much has changed. I’m not homeless or broke anymore, but I’m still miserable. I’m still a fucking loser.”

 “If you had never returned,” Eren says. “You may never have published _Metaphysics_.” He swallows down the words that naturally follow.

 Eren tries to imagine what his life would be like today if _Metaphysics_ never had been written. The novel had given him the means and the language to liberate himself. It had helped him see that he isn’t destined to any set path, that he can make his own path. It can be a steep and rocky path if he so wanted, but the choice was his. It had told him: don’t be defined – you are free. Free to define yourself, be whatever you want to be.

 And yet he had been afraid, afraid of the freedom that it showed him, the multitude of possibilities. The landscape it had presented him with stretched endlessly before him, empty and waiting. He felt if he went out there, how could he possibly find his way, how could he possibly survive there.

 And then, Levi had challenged him; told him in words different from those he had used in his book, but carrying the same meaning: that something chaotic can be beautiful.

 Levi had opened a door for him; showed him the outside, and helped bring to the surface something Eren had always known deep down; that he is living in a tomb – that where Eren is living, there is no future.

 But Eren had been too weak to face that chaos. He had been toothless.

 Eren is still toothless. He has yet to act; has yet to make a decisive move. A ruthless one.

 But right now, the only feeling he can focus on is that Levi feels too far away. Though, not unreachable – not yet.

 "Levi, I – ” Eren stops, bites the words to keep them from leaving his mouth. It’s an automatic mechanism that he has to fight. With a tremendous effort he relaxes his jaw, opens up. “My mother… she took her own life when I was ten. She, too, was struggling with alcohol abuse. She was very unhappy. Grisha… Grisha made her very unhappy.”

 Levi stirs. Slowly he turns to Eren, who is afraid of looking him in the eye now.

 Only a handful of people know. The only people Eren has ever told are his closest friends. “Anyways,” he hurries on, doesn’t want to linger. “That’s why – ” his voice breaks, “That’s why you can’t say those things – about dying. I won’t allow it.”

 His eyes are filled with tears again, and there is no way he can hide it, and although he is scared to do so, he locks his gaze onto Levi’s, who seems just as reluctant as he to let go.

 “I’m sorry, Eren. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

 Eren clears his throat, blinks the tears away although new ones form. His nose is running. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”

 He goes to dry his eyes again, but Levi’s hand is there already, wiping the tears away, a thumb caressing his cheek. “Then you shouldn’t be crying anymore. You shouldn’t be crying over things that don’t matter.”

 “You matter,” he proclaims, voice sounding a little stronger now. “And I don’t want you to die.”

 Eren can feel Levi’s hand shaking, hears him letting out a shivering breath. Fingers trail slowly, softly, down Eren’s cheek until a thumb is tracing his bottom lip, but it is not sensual. Levi is frowning. “What happened to your lip?” he says.

 The cut from when Grisha struck him, Eren realises, although mostly healed, is still visible. Eren’s expression tightens, he wants to pull away from the touch, but the gentleness of it makes him stay still. Though his heart is beating painfully in his chest, it feels safe to open his mouth. Still, Eren’s lips tremble when he says, “Grisha hits me. Now and again.” It is the first time he has ever told anyone. “Not as much as when I was younger, but he does it every so often. When I’ve done something he doesn’t agree with.” Eren wants to sound nonchalant, but his voice is subdued, as if it is trying to hide itself, even now.

 Levi’s hand freezes. The shock and terror on the writer’s face is unbearable when he says in a voice Eren has never heard him use before, “He hits you?”

 It makes Eren want to cry.

 “Eren. Hey. Are you all right?”

 Eren rises from his seat, quickly, feeling stronger and braver than before, and crawls into Levi’s bed before the other man can object. The author has to scoot back, perplexed, to give Eren room.

 “I’m staying here with you,” Eren whispers. He is so close to the other that he can see each hair of Levi’s lashes, and the cracks in his grey irises; he can smell the alcohol on his breath.

 He reaches for Levi’s body, wraps an arm around him until he can feel his heart beating against his chest. Eventually Levi relaxes and curls an arm around Eren’s waist, let’s his head rest in the crook of the student’s neck. They are silent, until Levi whispers a quiet “Thank you,” almost inaudible.

Eren can feel something cold and wet against his neck.

There is no desire, only warmth, and comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, there is only one chapter left of this story :)
> 
> The chapter title is a song by Laura Marling. 
> 
> Thank you for reading ~


	12. Reconstruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So.. I honestly never thought I would finish this, but here we are - finally !
> 
> For those of you who have been following this fic from the beginning, thank you dearly for reading, and for being so patient! This final chapter is long overdue.. 
> 
> Thank you again, and I hope you like it :)

Eren stays the night; wrapped tightly around Levi, perhaps afraid that the author will disappear into the darkness, dissipate into nothingness. But when Eren wakes in the morning, the sun cutting across the room, the author is still there, in his arms. As Eren watches the light crawl down the building outside, he knows clearly in his heart that he cannot stay any longer.

He disentangles himself from Levi’s body, as quietly as he can, but he could have saved himself the effort; Levi is awake, staring at him.

Locking eyes, Eren is petrified.

The shadows beneath Levi’s eyes look like bruises.

“I need to go,” Eren says, feeling a pull in his stomach.

Levi stares.

“I know.”

Eren, on the edge of the bed, “Will you be fine?”

Levi, still beneath the covers, “I will be. Eventually.”

He looks so tired. Eren wonders how much he slept.

Eren finds his hand, squeezes it gently.

“Let me know if you need help, okay? Or talk to Erwin. He’s very worried about you.”

Levi sighs, dismissively, “Of course he is.” His eyes are resting on their hands, a furrow of thought on his brow that Eren would like to trace. “What will you do now?”

Eren lets go of Levi’s hand, gets up, walks over to the window, and pulls the blinds all the way up to let in the brilliant light of early summer. The sky is a strip of beautiful blue between the buildings.

“I’m going outside,” he says, staring hard at the blue, blue sky. “I will go see the scariest man alive, and I will tell him what I have decided.”

Eren can hear Levi sitting up in bed.

“That’s not – you shouldn’t –“

“It’s okay. He won’t hurt me.” Eren turns to face Levi, who sits, hair dishevelled, staring at him. “I’ve thought it through,” Eren says, with confidence. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”

Levi’s face is empty but for the crease between his eyebrows.

“What have you decided?”

“To find my own way.”

Levi does not seem happy about the vagueness of the reply, his nose scrunching up in annoyance.

It is ironic, however, considering the author’s own certified proficiency in elusiveness, and Eren has to suppress a smile, feeling, too, a jolt of relief to see any kind of expression on Levi’s face at all.

“Then meet me in the park by the University. When you’re done.”

Eren wants to protest, and is about to, but it dawns on him that it might be for the best. So he nods instead, resigned.

“We should talk.”

“We’ll talk. I’ll be waiting there for you.”

Levi’s eyes seem hard, suddenly, with determination, and his hands are fists resting on the sheets, mirroring the look in his eyes.

Eren smiles, heading for the door.

“You should take a shower. And brush your teeth. And when you’re done you should get this place sorted.”

“And you should leave.”

Eren laughs, it feels good.

“I will. But first I’m throwing out all your alcohol.”

He grabs a carrier bag and starts collecting all the bottles, half empty, or unopened, or otherwise, until he has filled five or six of them. Levi says nothing while this is going on.

After some time, when it is quiet, Eren staring with a bottomless feeling at the bags he has stationed by the entrance, Levi’s voice comes from the bedroom:

“It’s not going to be that easy, you know.”

His voice is muted and strange; it barely carries out into the front room. Perhaps it wasn’t intended to.

“I know.”

______

 

On the phone, attentive to the silence he his talking into, of Grisha on the other end, Eren explains in short concise phrases that he has important matters to discuss, all the while ignoring the frantic beating of his heart. Thankfully, Grisha agrees to meet him that very evening, and he is the one to suggest that they go out for dinner. A relief.

Eren is shaky when he hangs up. He feels a little cold, even though it is warmer than it has been for months. He decides to take a hot shower, washing the cold away, and he feels better when he’s done.

He sits down at the kitchen table with his notebooks, leaning back in the chair and listening to the silence of the flat for a minute.

Mikasa and Armin are both out – Armin has morning classes, Mikasa is probably at work. Eren desperately wishes they were there just then. He wants to share his anxieties with them, and his thoughts for the future; a future he has painstakingly avoided thinking about for so long.

Then he thinks of Levi.

Where does he belong – to his past or his future? Eren and Levi have both been hurt in the past, and they have hurt each other. Eren knows he has to accept that pain and move forward. The events of the previous night had been painful, yet cathartic.

Sighing, Eren slips further down on his chair.

He looks out the window, at the brilliantly blue sky. The colour prompts him to get up and walk outside onto the balcony.

It is warmer, not quite summer yet, but it’s getting there.

Seagulls fly by and Eren’s eyes follow their flight, going southward towards the harbour; he can see it from the balcony, the sun glittering on the surface of the water.

Somehow it is easy to forget that Shiganshina is a coastal city. Eren tends to forget that the mass of water is right there, but every so often he receives a reminder; the cry of a gull, or the melancholy sound of a distant boat horn, and every time he has the same thought: how can it be so easy to forget something that is so vast and so close?

The reminder, the sight of the sea and the colour of blue, which seems to be everywhere that day, makes Eren feel better, easier.

He walks back inside and sits down with his notes, picking up a pencil and continuing to write in his notebook.

The piece for the _Journal_ is coming together, and he feels confident he’ll be able to finish it before the magazine goes on print the next week. Eren is neglecting several term papers that are due soon – the end of the semester is nigh – but he has a feeling that this piece will turn out to be more important than any term paper he will ever write.

He is able to get some work done until he isn’t anymore, and he decides to make some lunch, taking a longer time preparing the food and consuming it than he would have normally. His thoughts are getting louder and he turns on the radio so he doesn’t have to eat in their dismal company alone.

Later he tries to do some more work, but his mind is not in the right place, instead he retreats to a chair by the window, watching the street down below, which is not as busy as he would have liked it to be.

Restlessly, he paces, idly running a hand over surfaces while thinking of the appointment that is steadily approaching.

He knows what he is going to say, it won’t take long to say it, and when it is said he will leave, and everything will be fine. They will be in a public place and Grisha can’t do anything to harm him, and hopefully Eren won’t ever have to see him again. Although – gritting his teeth – that might not be realistic, not if Eren is going to be staying in Shiganshina. At least he won’t be obliged to meet him and Grisha won’t be able to force him anymore.

Eren dreads the meeting, but it is crucial, he knows. His life, his future, everything rides on it. He needs to be brave.

There are teeth in his mouth; his tongue confirms it.

 

 ______

 

They meet at the usual restaurant, the one situated on the hillside, overlooking the city. The place is filled with people and Eren is glad.

Grisha is already there, seated at a table by the big windows.

Eren approaches steadily, and even when Grisha’s cold eyes meet his own from across the room, he doesn’t falter.

He takes a seat and says, before his father can seize the word,

“I won’t be here longer than necessary. I will say what I came here to say and you will listen as I speak. When I am done I will leave.”

Grisha’s eyes flash dangerously. His mouth sets in a thin line.

They haven’t seen each other since the incident in the bookstore, and Grisha is eyeing his son more venomously than he has ever done before. The shame and the anger of that time threatens to come back, but Eren keeps his face composed, meeting his father’s gaze unflinchingly; beneath the tablecloth his hands are fists.

His jaw locks, reminding him of his molars, his canines, his incisors...

A comforting thought: his words always travel out between these solid ranks, seemingly protected. He can let the words pass freely, or bite them off if he so chooses.

Eren is done biting them off, however, now he needs to set them free. He loosens his jaw.

“I have decided that I will not work for you when I finish my studies. And I have no wish to inherit the press house. You will need to find another successor.”

Looking his father dead in the eye, “I have been a coward for far too long, but I won’t endure your abuse any longer.”

While Eren is speaking, Grisha grows increasingly pale – with rage, mostly, but Eren suspects there is a smidge of fear there, too. His son has never spoken to him like this before, not with this kind of resolution, no longer cowering before him, and Grisha had not been prepared for this.

Despite knowing that he is perfectly safe, Eren can feel himself starting to shake.

"I don’t think you quite realise what you are saying, Eren.”

The tone of Grisha’s voice is low and treacherously calm. Eren can see him shaking, too, but not with fear.

How frustrating it must be for Grisha, having his son talking to him in this way in a public place, where he cannot do anything to curb him, where he cannot assert his authority violently, as he is used to.

To Eren, it is a delightful experience, and he cannot help the smile that spreads on his lips. Never has Eren had the upper hand against Grisha, but now, finally, he has broken free from his fear, and can cut every tie with his father.

Grisha no longer has any power over him. The man cannot control Eren like he used to. This time there will be no consequences.

The feeling of freedom is empowering.

"Oh, believe me, I am fully aware of what I’m saying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as clearly as I do now.”

Eren leans across the table and lowers his voice to a threat,

“You don’t own me, you can’t make me do anything anymore. And if you try, I will report you to the police, and then we will see how your name and your reputation will suffer.”

Eren gets to his feet abruptly, cold stare aimed at his father. He has said everything he wants to say and does not wish to be in Grisha’s presence any longer. He turns around and is about to leave.

“You can’t walk away from your name, Eren, your family.”

Eren turns back around, the volume of his voice increasing as he feels the rage start coursing through his body.

“I may be a Jaeger, but you’re not my family – you were never my family. And I don’t owe you shit – all you ever gave me was pain. You and your press house can burn for all I care. Oh, did I tell you?” he adds, vindictive smile growing on his lips. “I’ve already been approached by Titan Publishing. As an editor, I’m going to make it my life goal to produce as many _degenerate_ books as possible. You thought _Metaphysics_ was bad? Just you wait.”

At that, Grisha jolts to his feet, knocking into the table so that their glasses fall over, spilling water over the tablecloth. Eren’s heart misses a beat before he can remind himself that he’s safe, he’s fine. Still, his body reacts instinctively, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

They have already drawn attention from nearby patrons, and Grisha has noticed.

“Sit down,” he threatens, but Eren is done.

“Fuck you. Don’t you come near me ever again. If you do, I’ll make your life hell, just like you made mine.”

Without another look at Grisha, Eren turns his back to him and walks away, not registering anything until he is standing outside, gulping up lungfuls of afternoon air.

He decides to remove himself from the area as quickly as possible, just in case Grisha were to follow him outside.

Eren walks to the nearest tram station and waits. His heart is still beating too fast and he is still shaking.

Taking out his phone, he has three text messages from Levi, asking him if he’s okay, if he’s finished yet, and the last one: _I’m waiting for you at the park._ Received thirty-eight minutes ago.

The tram arrives. It will take him fifteen minutes at least to get to the park. As they descend the hill, the sun is going down. A simultaneous downward movement. Eren thinks of Levi at the park, waiting for him.

Eren gets off at the University. It lies there as a huge dark beast, quiet, sleeping. He turns his back to it, entering the park across the road.

It is not hard to spot the author. There is a small fountain in the centre with benches around it, and on one of them sits a figure. An orange glow, like from a cigarette, makes Eren hesitate, but when he gets closer it is definitely Levi sitting there.

The moment the author sees him approaching, he stomps out the cigarette and gets to his feet. When Eren is standing before him he is submitted to the most intense scrutiny given him by Levi yet.

“How’d it go?” he says, not easing off the stare. His right hand twitches once in an aborted movement; the fingers curl into a fist instead, frustrated.

Eren smiles.

“Without incident.”

The author visibly relaxes, although fist still at his side, gaze still intense.

“And?”

Eren gives a nervous laugh.

“Let’s sit down? I’m sorry for making you wait.”

When they are seated, Eren watches as Levi pulls out another cigarette, struggling to light it.

“I’m not going to Jaeger Press House when I graduate.”

Levi, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, releases a stream of smoke and tilts his head to look at him. There is a fugitive smile teasing the corner of his mouth.

“I’m glad to hear that.” After a minute, “I’m guessing your father didn’t take it very well.” Watching him intently again.

“Nope. But he can’t do anything about it. He holds no power over me anymore.”

“How about financially?”

Eren shrugs. “I’ll need to find a new job and start paying my own tuition, but I’ll be fine.”

Levi nods, eyes retreating, looking ahead through another plume of smoke.

“Look,” he says, after some time has passed in silence. “I want to apologise to you. Bear with me; I’m not good at this. I would have written you a letter if I had not thought it cowardly – even though I might have been able to express myself better that way.”

Eren is silent. Waiting.

Levi’s brow is furrowed; he scowls into the smoke, searching for words.

“I don’t know if an apology is enough. What happened between us was… strange to me. Overwhelming in many ways. I couldn’t deal with it very well. Along the way, I even convinced myself that I was helping you somehow. I had trouble seeing clearly. I thought I knew what I wanted, but I realise now that I don’t know.”

“I am very lost, Eren. And I am sorry for bringing you into this wasteland. You didn’t deserve to get involved in my mess… Ahh, this isn’t right… wait a minute.”

Levi has shut his eyes, fingers clinging to the cigarette as he searches for his voice; it looks as if he’s struggling with a headache. Slowly, he continues, steadier,

“Eren, you were so small in that store; crouching, cowering – so quiet. I got the feeling when I saw you there, that you were interred – that you would die there. I didn’t know how or why, but I saw you were in pain. In a way, I wanted to help you, pull you out of that tomb you were being put in. But I’m a selfish person. I saw you were in pain and I put my own pain first, my own needs before yours, all the while you were slowly suffocating under a heavy weight. I added to that weight.”

“I’m sorry, I was blinded by my self. Sometimes my self is split into so many parts I hardly know where to even begin assembling it. I lose sight of others because I can barely see my self. Or, I see too much of my self – I don’t know… I used you, Eren – that I know.”

“I am never interested in things, but you, for whatever reason, you intrigued me. I liked the way you saw me. It was exciting. I hadn’t been excited about anything for a while. Perhaps I wasn’t really interested in you but in myself. Actually, I’m sure it was like this. I’m more clearheaded now. I’m not pieced together just yet, but I can see you more clearly, and I see myself more clearly because of it.”

Levi opens his eyes, turns to Eren.

“I’m sorry, Eren. From now on, I hope things will be easier for you.”

Eren can feel the tears stinging behind his eyes. Once again, he finds himself moved by Levi’s words, in awe, head spinning,

“It’s okay. I forgive you.” A whisper.

He clears his throat, which feels too tight, and swallows, feeling nervous. He speaks up,

“There is something… I’d like to say, too.”

Silence. Grey eyes rest on Eren.

“I was reading, and walking, and thinking – a lot. And I found in _Metaphysics_ something that I think you’re not aware of.”

Raising an eyebrow, Levi’s expression changes into one of surprise and disbelief; the idea that there might be anything in his writing that he is not aware of perhaps offensive to the author. But he keeps quiet, waiting for Eren to continue.

“You told me once that you hate language. ‘Writing, fighting, living – they’re all the same to me,’ you said. And I thought that was sad. It didn’t seem like writing was something you enjoyed, rather it was something you _had_ to do in order to live.”

“And I believed you for a long time. I believed you _,_ the man sitting in front of me right now, despite the words that you had written, the words that I had read over and over, the proof that I was always carrying around with me. Reading _Metaphysics_ again, differently, after everything that happened, I finally saw it.”

“Levi, you say you don’t believe in language, that you hate it, that you cannot trust it – but your writing contradicts those words – do you know that? There is hope in _Metaphysics._ That was what made me like it so much in the first place.”

“You named it _Metaphysics,_ Levi. And, the way I see it, you are reaching for something that is beyond language. You believe that it is there, something _authentic._ At least, you want it to be there, you hope that it exists. You know that language has its shortcomings, but you love it nevertheless. You believe in it.”

His voice is shaking. “You want to write, you want to win _– you want to live._ Try to tell me that I am wrong.”

Eren bites his lip. Tears have formed in his eyes while he spoke and now he is afraid of what Levi might answer, that maybe he has gotten it wrong after all. But he so desperately believes – hopes – that he is right. The alternative is too frightening to consider.

The spines have fallen from Levi’s frame, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His eyes are locked on Eren’s, lips parted as if he is about to say something. A hand comes up to cover his mouth, not in time to stop a soft chuckle from escaping.

There is something around Levi’s eyes that makes the grey of his irises seem warmer.

“That is an interesting interpretation,” he says, removing his hand to reveal a smile. Voice quiet, “I like it.”

Eren dries his tears as a short laugh bursts from his chest; the relief washes through him like a drug, looking at Levi’s smile. He can draw deep breaths now.

Eren wants to take Levi’s hand, he wants to touch him, but he doesn’t, he hesitates.

They sit in silence, both uncertain.

The future is uncertain. Brighter now than it had seemed before, full of possibilities, full of new things, full of life – a life of a new, yet to be explored form…

Despite how he strains to see, Eren cannot seem to see Levi there.

What does Eren feel for Levi? Some kind of love? Maybe. From where Eren is at right now he cannot tell.

Before Eren can even begin to process these thoughts, let alone attempt to express them coherently, he feels a cold hand taking hold of his own. He turns to Levi, a question in his eyes.

Levi is smiling, carefully, a little sadly perhaps, his sharp eyes resting on Eren’s face. Levi has always been a good reader.

Softly, he places his lips on Eren’s. It is the most innocent kiss that they have ever shared. It is bittersweet.

When they part:

“Take care, Eren.”

“Take care, Levi.”

_______

 

Eren’s piece on _Metaphysics_ turned out to be hugely successful – in some ways. Because, while it garnered a lot of critical attention, and approval from their peers, it also lost them their funding.

Needless to say, the members were not happy. Eren even got into a fight with Jean – which was quickly broken up by Armin and the others.

“We knew what was at stake,” he huffs. “This isn’t Eren’s fault only.”

They didn’t get to mourn for long, however. Later that day Eren received a phone call from Erwin Smith, telling him that Titan Publishing would be willing to fund the _Shiganshina Journal_.

They had one year left until graduation, and now they had been given the opportunity to explore whatever they pleased in the _Journal._ The possibilities were endless. Needless to say, the members were overjoyed.

Eren could hardly believe it. Suddenly everything was falling into place.

In the course of a few months his life had crumbled, had been thrown into chaos, and at the time he had been unable to control it, to weak to even try to touch the pieces, to attempt to put it back together in any recognisable shape. He didn’t know what to envision, didn’t have the strength to.

Being formless for some time had been necessary for him. He had been stuck where he was, in a too rigid state, where he wasn’t really himself; he had been something different, something that was dying.

The deconstruction had been necessary, although he wishes it wouldn’t have had to be so violent, so painful.

In his heart, he knows he suffered more than he deserved. He knows too, that if he hadn’t found the strength within him, he would have stayed in that formless state, and as with the rigid state he used to be in, it would have been poisonous.

           

________

Levi Ackerman was invited to the release party for the _Shiganshina Journal_. He did not make an appearance.

_______

           

Eren is sitting at his usual café, enjoying the soft bustle and the smell of coffee as he waits.

Mikasa is off work today, so Eren sits at a table by the window instead of his regular place, chatting with her at the counter.

He has a bunch of papers in front of him and a notebook at the ready, blank pages looking expectantly at him; he smiles back.

Outside lies a beautiful May day; the greenery of the park across the road is in bloom, green buds sprouting from the branches, and from the window Eren can see a lush lilac tree, viciously, unapologetically violet.

Imagining the smell fills him with a warm, invigorating feeling, and while it spreads he remembers how the blossoms taste: a sweet, lingering flavour. Later, he decides, he will pick the flowers again, like he did when he was a child.

As he watches, a blackbird alights on a branch next to the lilac tree.

Eren stares, incredulously. Two signs, merging together – and then he feels a little foolish.

He sighs, not unhappily, and looks at the time. Steadily, it moves forward. It makes him think back on how it has passed...

It has been a year now since he graduated from the University, and not long after he had been offered a job at Titan Publishing – which he had accepted.

At the time, certain papers had written about Eren Jaeger, the young promising editor who forsook his father Grisha Jaeger’s press house, and went to the progressive Titan Publishing instead, publisher of Levi Ackerman’s infamous _Metaphysics –_ a novel that Grisha Jaeger himself had on several occasions accused of being devoid of any literary merit _._

Certain papers had written that Grisha Jaeger was declining to comment on what had been dubbed by the media as his son’s “betrayal,” and that Eren Jaeger, too, refrained from making any commentary on the matter. And fortunately, it was left at that.

Eren has not seen or heard from Grisha since their meeting at the restaurant, roughly two years ago. At first, he had been expecting his father to contact him at any moment, every day dreading a potential encounter, fearing that he would come home one day and find Grisha waiting by his door. But Eren heard nothing from him, not even a phone call. It seemed like Grisha had finally written him off as dead. And in a way, he is – at least a part of him.

As Eren looks at the lilacs – and the lilacs are essential to this – Eren comes to the realisation that the state he currently finds himself in, is the most comfortable one he has ever inhabited.

He has a job that he loves, where he is surrounded by like-minded people, and where he gets to edit amazing texts – texts that he would never have encountered at Jaeger Press House – and each text, every encounter with an unknown author teaches him something new, challenges his perspectives.

Over the course of the last year, working for Titan Publishing, Eren has been growing into something that is more like himself; it is like he is slowly shedding old skin, emerging new and transformed.

Shedding skin, however, does not entail getting rid of everything that one was. Fundamentally, one still inhabits the same body one was born into, and the body is inscribed with experiences that it will carry upon it always, although some may fade over time.

Eren still lives with Mikasa and Armin, his most favourite people in the world and doesn’t want it any other way, at least not for the moment. For the moment he is happy.

– And excited. Hungry, but not unbearably so. It is not the desperate, restless hunger that he knew so intimately before. This new hunger… perhaps it is closer to greed?

At present, he is sated, content, but also excited for what is to come. The future no longer looms before him, dark like the inside of a tomb – it is bright, blue, and violet.

He wants, and does not feel guilty about it. He wants, and is not frightened.

It is because of this newly acquired serenity that Eren is able to greet the man that has just entered the café, and is now standing before him.

“Hello, Levi,” he says.

“Hello, Eren.”

Eyes resting on Eren, a smile grows on Levi’s lips.

The writer looks healthier. There is more colour in his face, his eyes seem brighter, there aren’t dark bruise-like shadows beneath them anymore. His hair is trimmed, a little unevenly; Eren wonders if Levi did it himself.

“You look… good.”

Levi raises an eyebrow, laughs, and Eren can’t resist laughing himself.

“You know, better – healthier.”

Levi stops laughing, but the smile is still there, gentle.

“I feel better. No more drinking.”

The reference to a painful time, a painful memory, stings at first, but the warm feeling from before swirls inside Eren now, feeds off of the smile on Levi’s lips, the colour in his cheeks, the new, lighter atmosphere he carries with him; the bright, expectant eyes – looking at Eren.

“I’m glad to hear that… It’s good to see you again.” Then Eren remembers himself. “Please, have a seat.”

Levi casts his eyes down, almost shyly, and sits, the hint of a smile still present, now looking as if he is amused by something.

“Are you going to make fun of me?” Eren prompts.

Levi meets his gaze. “I am tempted, but I wont.”

“Damn right you won’t. I’m a respected editor these days.”

Levi places an elbow on the table, rests his chin in his hand.

“So I’ve heard. I guess I’m about to find out for myself.”

“Trust me, I won’t let you down.”

“I trust you.”

Eren drops his eyes to the manuscript before him. Levi’s manuscript.

“I’m surprised,” Levi’s voice has Eren looking up again, but Levi is surveying the wood of the table, a finger tracing the marks that have been left in it. “I’m surprised at how easy this is,” and lifts his eyes to meet Eren’s.

Eren swallows, doesn’t look away.

“Yeah, me too. A little.”

They are quiet for a moment, and then,

“So, how have you been? Besides getting wooed by Erwin – I hope he’s not taking advantage of you, over there at Titan?”

Eren snorts, but cannot help the blush that comes to his face anyway.

"I’m more than just a pretty face, Levi.”

Levi chuckles, eyes closing for half a second, before they are fixed on Eren again, full of warm regard.

“I know that.”

The blush on Eren’s face does not fade immediately. He thinks, how strange it is to be with Levi like this, so different from before, easier somehow, sweeter.         

“I’ve been good,” he smiles. “In fact, never better.”

Levi hums, eyes studying Eren’s face carefully.

“You look much happier. It suits you,” Levi tilts his head a little, smirks and says, “kind of makes me want to kiss you.” Levi sees the look on Eren’s face, laughs, and assures, with mirth in his eyes, “But I won’t.”

Eren feels his heart, strong and reliable; it beats, slightly quicker, and he knows, whatever may come, he can handle it. Eren is full of blood, warmth, strength and love, and he is braver than he was.

“Maybe I’ll kiss you first,” he threatens, grinning; baring his white teeth.

He takes the manuscript, opens it up onto the first page, “But before that, we’ve got some work to do.”

Levi grins too, leaning closer over the table. Briefly his eyes take in the words on the manuscript, his very own words turned upside down, before they settle back on Eren.

"I’m all ears.”


End file.
